


All I Want (Is You)

by amavyllis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (parenthesis abuse), 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale and Crowley are both oblivious, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Historical References, I cried writing this if that intrigues you, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Or realizing they were always in love, Other, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a lot of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:51:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amavyllis/pseuds/amavyllis
Summary: The angel is afraid they’ll be punished, that the righteous divinity of heaven will smite him down and that everything he holds dear will be taken from him in one swift moment. (And, he fears, somewhere deeply hidden inside his heart, of what it would mean if they touched, if they lingered, ifit meant something.) The demon is just afraid.So—they don’t touch.(It doesn’t mean they don’t want to.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my very first Good Omens fic. I was fairly nervous about writing about them because I was worried I wouldn’t get the voices right. Hopefully, this portrayal of them does them justice. I love them very much. I would say that this fic is mainly based on the show although book canon may slip through every now and then. And uh, just forget about all the times Crowley and Aziraphale _have_ touched in canon. Please enjoy!

They don’t touch.

It’s an unspoken rule between them, as so much about them is. It’s a line drawn decisively in the sand even though it’s never discussed aloud where that line should go. They are acutely aware—_all_ too aware—of their precarious relationship. The angel is afraid they’ll be punished, that the righteous divinity of Heaven will smite him down and that everything he holds dear will be taken from him in one swift moment. (And, he fears, somewhere deeply hidden inside his heart, of what it would mean if they touched, if they lingered, if _it meant something_.) The demon is just afraid.

So—they don’t touch.

(It doesn’t mean they don’t want to.)

* * *

ROME, 540

Crowley is having the time of his life.

He’s running with all the speed he has through the streets of Rome, dodging past people and carts with nimble ease. The people in the streets stop to stare at him and the group of wild children running alongside him. There are about a dozen of them, ranging from ages four to thirteen, all carrying piles of food, blankets, and money. They laugh and scream as they follow him. He’s carrying the littlest one on his shoulders; the tiny barefoot girl babbles joyfully while holding a small hen in her arms.

From a ways behind them, he can hear a man shouting. Their pursuers are a group of merchants that were the recent victims of a raid on the local marketplace.

He turns around only to shout something rude back. When something flies past his head, he ducks and laughs, completely unbothered. On his right, the boys carrying baskets of apples snicker. (Oh, he really is having _so_ much fun.)

Crowley knows the men are gaining on them. Children have boundless energy, but their little legs can’t outrun adults forever. He takes a moment to consider their possibilities. As they turn onto a wider street, he glances around briefly, inhales, and then yells, “SCATTER!”

The children immediately take off in different directions, hurrying onto the smaller side streets that branch off the main one. Crowley comes to a stop, making sure all of them have disappeared from view before he turns around to face the oncoming group. He holds up a small coin pouch for them to see.

“Missing something?” he calls and watches with delight as the face of one of the men reddens with anger. He readjusts his hold on the girl and looks up at her. “Hold on tight!”

She giggles and says, “Go!” 

The chicken squawks.

Then they’re off—he makes a sharp turn around a corner and down the twisting back alleys, the coins in the pouch clanging noisily as he runs. The girl clings onto him as she makes happy gurgling noises. He can hear the men trying to follow him and wonders how these humans can be as incompetent as they are. Still, he’s careful about every turn he makes, keeping his sense of orientation straight in his grand escape. The excitement of it all sends a thrill through his spine. 

And on he runs.

* * *

Eventually, he can’t hear the men anymore. They must have finally fallen behind and lost track of him. He slows down and begins to stroll at a leisurely pace in a different direction.

“Good job,” he tells the girl, who beams at him and leans down.

“Are the bad men gone?” she whispers conspiratorially into his ear.

“Yup,” he answers, popping the ‘p’. He thinks so, at least. If they show up again, he’ll just keep running. (It makes him wonder if this body has any limits or if he could go on forever if he really wanted to. He bookmarks the thought.)

Now that he’s a normal person rather than a reckless thief, he slips through the throngs of people unnoticed. Some look at the girl and her chicken but eventually carry on. It must appear a little strange. It’s not like Crowley planned it; he had just scooped her up somewhere along the way when he saw she was falling behind. 

The chicken suddenly gives him a hard peck on the head.

“Ow!” A sharp pain shoots through him and then it’s gone. He stops walking to swat at the hen. “What was that for?”

In front of them, a large cart filled with foul-smelling fish rolls past. Crowley wrinkles his nose at the stench and waits for it to be completely gone before moving on. He can feel the girl shift around on his shoulders.

“Bad bird,” she scolds.

He rubs the back of his head and asks, “How’d you get the chicken anyway?”

She rests her chin on the top of his head. “They was going to eat her.”

“And you aren’t?” Crowley smiles and then stops when he sees a couple of the merchants from earlier ahead of them. He quickly hides behind a few wine barrels standing on the side of the road and motions for his companion to be quiet. She immediately stills and holds onto the chicken tighter. Through the cracks between the barrels, he watches the men and waits for them to pass by. Then he stands and hurries away into a different street, telling himself that he needs to get there faster before another group sees them.

They don’t speak for a while. Then, “She seemed sad in there.”

He’s caught off guard. It takes him a moment to realize she’s still talking about the hen. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says and doesn’t elaborate further. She holds the chicken above her head, giggling as she announces, “I’m going to call her Felix!” The newly-named chicken squawks loudly.

“A lovely name,” he says without question and keeps moving.

After passing by a few more streets, he spots the insula on the corner that has been chosen as their rendezvous point. The crumbling building almost looks abandoned, although Crowley knows that many poor families live in the crowded rooms within. It’s further proof that Rome is fading and that its people are dying.

When he walks into the side street along the insula, he’s immediately swarmed by the horde of children. He’s only barely able to check that they’re all safely there before they all begin chattering excitedly, holding up their stolen goods for him to see. Every one of their eyes shimmer. For the first time in a while, they look _alive_. They look like children.

Crowley can’t help but smile looking at them. He murmurs words of praise to them and their faces seem to glow even more in response.

Felix squawks once and then leaps out of the girl’s arms. With a squeal, she jumps off of him to chase after her. The oldest of the children, a girl who might be around thirteen years of age, catches the animal and tucks her under her arm. 

“Don’t let her run off,” she scolds although she’s smiling. “And you ruffians,” she addresses the group, “the soldiers are gonna get you if you keep being so noisy.”

They all laugh at the threat but stop their chatter.

“Thank you for helping us,” she says to Crowley when they’ve quieted. “You’re very kind.”

He stiffens ever so slightly at the words. (He’s not very used to others thinking that of him. It’s a shame because he is that kind.) The corner of his mouth curves upward. “I’m encouraging children to steal,” he replies. “That’s hardly a kind thing to do.”

She shrugs. “We have no parents, no food, nothing to keep us warm. We would have died without your help.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. She’s right. It’s why he intervened. (Crowley can’t look at a child without being reminded of the flood, of the ones he _didn’t_ save.)

There’s a small tug on his tunic and he looks down to see a small boy smiling back. He’s thin; his clothes are dirty; his feet are bare; but he’s _smiling_. “You’re like an angelus,” the boy says with wonder in his voice.

He isn’t. (An angelus is a divine messenger—an angel. He is no angel, though he doesn’t know if his recent actions can be called demonly either.) But Crowley smiles—lets him believe it. 

“Will you be alright on your own?” he asks, because he can’t stay.

“We have to be,” the oldest says, her hand gently stroking the top of one of the children’s heads. “I’d like to believe that the siege didn’t kill us for a reason. Maybe that’s not true. But we’re a family now; we’ll stick together.”

He looks at them and the way their eyes still shine, and feels all the love he holds for these creatures spread through his chest. “You all did very well today,” he says and jerks his head towards the building. “Now go and put away your new things before someone gets suspicious.”

Crowley watches as the children disappear into the insula with their loaves of bread and tunics and fruitcakes (and one hen) piled in their arms. They shout farewells at him as they go and he waves back. 

He knows the Ostrogoths will be back eventually to seize Rome again. (He’ll be somewhere else by then; he won’t see it.) He just hopes they’ll be alright.

When he eventually turns away, his heart involuntarily stutters slightly in his chest. 

Standing just a few feet away in a pristinely kept yellow linen tunic is Aziraphale. 

Crowley stares.

The angel seems surprised by _his_ surprise for a moment and then his features soften. “Hello, Crowley.”

_(Oh.)_

“Hi, angel,” he says and privately applauds himself for keeping his voice steady. He has no idea why he’s nervous. As Aziraphale continues to look at him with a knowing gaze, Crowley belatedly realizes that he must have been here the whole time watching him—watching him with the _children_. “Ah—” he says cleverly, “That was just...making sure they’ll grow up to be real menaces to society.” Not his best excuse. He’s not sure if it was even believable. But he has to do _something_ about protecting his reputation, though seeing the angel seems to have short-circuited his brain. He rather wishes he has something witty to say to him instead.

Aziraphale looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Right, well…” Crowley clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, regaining his footing, “see you’ve left Britain, then. Had enough of the damp?”

“Quite right. I had to stay and look after the people for some time after Arthur’s death and I’m quite relieved to finally leave that behind me. Horribly frustrating, that armor.”

“Thought you’d head off to Paris rather than come to Rome, angel.” He’d understand if he had come a few centuries earlier, when the world _was_ Rome. Now it lies in the shadow of its former glory, crumbled and defeated. There’s nothing here, not anymore.

Aziraphale fiddles with the long sleeves of his tunic. “Well, to tell you the truth, I thought that you’d be here.”

(Crowley doesn’t ask how he knew and Aziraphale doesn’t say.)

“Why’d you want to find me?” 

He looks just the slightest bit pensive. Then, he straightens his back and says quietly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time.”

Crowley is silent. He doesn’t need a reminder to remember what he suggested then. (In fact, it’s the reason he’s in Rome. The idea of accidentally meeting Aziraphale again to be rebuked, or at worst ignored, because of their conversation dismayed him.) He still thinks it’s a good idea. Though, he has no clue why Aziraphale is bringing it up again. He quite firmly dismissed it before, after all.

Is he going to be smote? He hopes not. He still wants to take the angel out for lunch.

“And?”

“I’m…” Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line. Crowley’s gaze falls on them and almost absentmindedly, he makes note of how round and full they are. Pretty, he thinks. 

_(Wait, what?)_

“I’m supposed to be in Toledo next,” the angel continues slowly, gazing at the stone wall in front of them like there’s something interesting about it. Crowley’s own wandering gaze snaps back to find Aziraphale’s eyes. There’s some sort of unvoiced implication in his words.

“Interesting.” Crowley watches him closely. “So am I.”

Aziraphale tilts his head over so slightly. “Well,” he says, his eyes flicking up to meet Crowley’s before he shrugs. “Like you said. Not much point in us _both_ going.”

Now Crowley _really_ stares, and not just because there’s suddenly a pretty angel talking to him. He feels something has just changed between them with those few words. Everything before this has been fleeting interactions that only happened by chance. (Although, on a couple occasions, Crowley made up reasons to specifically talk to Aziraphale even when he had no business with him.) He has always known there was something special about this angel, something that made him different from the others. He wasn’t really expecting this from him, however. In a way, this is going behind Heaven’s back. In a way, this is giving them a kind of relationship.

He has never really liked angels. He can’t say how he felt about them before he Fell, but every interaction he has had since has been unpleasant. They’re self-righteous, arrogant, and selective. He thought that about Aziraphale too, initially.

But...Aziraphale is different. Crowley is gradually learning that at his core, he is actually good rather than Good. Heaven represents Good as Hell represents Evil. However, being Good is entirely different from being _good_. It’s what makes Aziraphale interesting. It’s what makes him kind. Angels can’t be kind because they have to be Good.

And Aziraphale is good.

(So is Crowley.)

He likes that. He wants to _know_ him and he feels in his heart that it’s important that he does.

So he says, “Right,” and smiles. “We cancel each other out. It wouldn’t make a difference if neither of us went.”

“Exactly.” Aziraphale seems relieved by his response and gives him a beaming smile in return.

Crowley thinks he’d like to bask in that smile forever.

He slithers closer to him, his smile widening as he says, “Well then, with so much time on our hands, would you care to join me for lunch?”

He notices after drawing close that Aziraphale has stiffened slightly, his cheeks newly colored with a light blush.

“Oh, I don’t think my side…” He starts to say, and Crowley’s heart plummets at the thought of being rejected so soon. But then Aziraphale meets his gaze and something in his expression changes, and Crowley realizes just how _close_ they are to each other. If he shifts just slightly, his hand would brush against Aziraphale’s arm, and it could be an accident, it wouldn’t have to _mean_ anything. 

His entire body stills. 

He can’t, he reminds himself. They don’t touch, hell, they’ve barely even _spoken_ to one another before this point. And, he notes, Aziraphale is clearly uncomfortable being so close to him.

It’s fine. _It’s fine._ They don’t have to _be_ anything. He should be satisfied with what they have—whatever it is. (He doesn’t know what he wants yet, but still he yearns.) As an angel and a demon, it’s already somewhat of a miracle they can interact this way with each other. This is enough.

_(I only want to be near you, please don’t send me away.)_

Crowley takes a step back, his grin still as wide as ever. “Of course,” he says but Aziraphale surprises him by saying, “No, I’ll accept your offer.”

The angel smiles at Crowley when they make eye contact. There’s something different about him, Crowley senses—like he’s decided something. Aziraphale then walks past him and out onto the bigger street, calling behind him, “As long as you’re the one paying, my dear.”

_My dear._

Crowley likes that—he likes that very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize if there's anything abhorrently inaccurate about any of the historical stuff. I did some research and tried my best, but I am certainly not an expert.


	2. Chapter 2

LONDON, 1528

Aziraphale smiles. Then, remembering that angels aren’t really supposed to smile at demons, he frowns and furrows his eyebrows in a way he hopes looks authoritative.

Across the room, Crowley catches his eye and smirks.

_Oh, lord,_ Aziraphale thinks as he makes his way through the party attendees, bowing and nodding and saying excuse me when he passes by. He can see Crowley begin moving towards a corner of the room that’s less crowded—away from prying eyes that might look in on their conversation.

“I thought you were in Germany,” Aziraphale says when he gets there.

Crowley tips his feathered black hat. “Hello to you too, angel. And—” he readjusts it, “—I _was_. Some...temptation or other. Y’know. But, er, down below thought I was doing a remarkable job there and sent me back to England to foment more demonly discord. So here I am. At a party.”

“Well, it seems like they’re all in jolly spirits,” he remarks, looking around.

The room is filled with some of London’s most illustrious nobles. Dressed in their finest outfits, they mingle with each other, conversing politely after enjoying the night’s meal. The sound of music and laughter joyously rings through the place. It doesn’t seem like there’s a single person who isn’t having a good time.

“Oh, just you wait,” Crowley says and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. “I mean—these people can barely tolerate each other. They’re just good at being polite and swapping insincere pleasantries. But I, the excellent demon that I am, have discovered a way to bring out the worst sides of themselves.”

“And how, exactly?”

Crowley’s lips curl into a smile. “If I told you, you would have to stop me, no?”

Would he? Aziraphale has to stop and consider it for a moment. “I suppose yes,” he decides and then adds, “though you must tell me what you’re up to now on a later occasion.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it tomorrow,” Crowley reassures him with a cheeky sparkle in his eyes.

“My dear, you can be quite the bastard sometimes,” he says in return and tries not to feel curious. “But tell me, why weren’t you at the banquet? The food was truly marvelous. I do believe our host brought out some special wine for us as well.”

Crowley shrugs. “Banquets aren’t really my thing. I just came to stir up trouble at the end.”

Aziraphale has the strong suspicion that while he has never _seen_ Crowley eat, the demon does. They do discuss fine dining together, after all. He wonders if it has something to do with his eating habits. Perhaps he swallows everything whole as a snake would. It would make sense then that he doesn’t do so in public. Still, he wants to know. One day, maybe, he will.

“That’s a pity. We could have conversed as we ate. It really has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Mm, yeah.” Crowley squints as he thinks. “Early 15th century, I’m thinking.”

The angel brightens and says, “Oh, yes! We tried that dish the Japanese are developing—_namanare_, I believe. That festival we went to together really was lovely.”

He remembers it very well. He had gotten Crowley out of some trouble with a Japanese warlord. It certainly had not been easy to make him stand down his entire army but Aziraphale got through eventually. (Though, perhaps that is a story for another time.) Then they had gone to a local festival and he had eaten namanare: partly-raw fish freshly wrapped in rice. It was one of the best things Aziraphale had ever eaten. He couldn’t convince Crowley to try it, however, and that was disappointing. Still, it had been fun.

Crowley makes a face now as he remembers. “I still can’t believe you ate _raw fish_.”

“You’re a literal snake, my dear boy, I don’t think you’re one to judge,” he replies dryly.

The demon snorts.

“I really do think you’d enjoy it if you tried.”

“Ah, when they get rid of the smell, _then_ I will.”

“Well then, a few centuries from now we’ll have to do just that together,” Aziraphale says and smiles.

Although Crowley’s sunglasses partially hide his eyes, Aziraphale can see the surprise and something else flicker in them just briefly. Crowley turns his head away slightly. He mumbles, “S’pose that’s alright.”

Aziraphale chuckles. In talking with Crowley, he’s nearly forgotten that he _shouldn’t_ be, not really. He’s an _angel_. They’re enemies. But somehow, one smile from Crowley and Aziraphale forgets himself—or rather, forgets who he’s _supposed_ to be. And that doesn’t feel like such a terrible thing to him now. It can’t be that bad to just _talk_ to him and meet up every couple hundred years. Still, it’s best that he remembers to keep just enough of a distance. He doesn’t want to get too close. (Literally and figuratively.) It’s not like the demon is _important_ to him, he just likes the company sometimes.

(But what he’s thinking, somewhere, is _I don’t want to lose you_. See, it’s funny what the mind convinces you of.)

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices the door opening and a servant enter the room with a guest. His entire body freezes. He blinks once, hoping his eyes are betraying him, but the face of the archangel Uriel is unmistakable, even under a headdress. Her gaze begins to sweep across the room and he immediately ducks behind a small statue. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest. _Why is she here?_

“Uh,” Crowley says from behind him, “what’s wrong, angel?”

“It’s Uriel,” he hisses, stricken, watching her talk to a noblewoman with panicked eyes.

Crowley follows his gaze, confused. “And why are you hiding from another angel?”

“I…” Aziraphale flushes. Oh, he really isn’t much of an angel. “Well, I just heard that this nobleman has excellent, um, food at his banquets and I wanted to see for myself. However, Gabriel would be most furious to find out that I'm here.”

Crowley looks at him (and oh it really is quite shameful) and he covers his mouth and laughs.

“Oh, _angel_.”

He says it like it’s endearing. He says it like it’s quite funny. (He says it like he’s in love.)

Aziraphale watches the way the corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkle fondly before the sound of Uriel’s voice shakes him out of his daze. He peers around the statue.

The other angel remains on the other side of the room, engaging in conversation with other guests. He has no idea if she’s at the party because he is or if she isn’t aware yet of his presence. Although, that’s the only reason he can come up with for her being here. He really is going to get such a heavy scolding from upper management for squandering his time like this.

(Then he remembers that _Crowley_ is here and what will she do if she sees a _demon_ and will she hurt him and oh they’re even here _together_ and what will she think of them and will she _hurt_ him and what will they all _think_—)

He sees Crowley’s hand move towards him, stop, and then lower. (Oh.) The demon studies his face, his eyes softening behind his glasses as he says, “Aziraphale, relax. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just ignore her.”

Aziraphale forces himself to look away from Uriel and at Crowley. “But she can’t see us. You don’t...you _don’t_ want them angry.”

He looks at Aziraphale, then at Uriel. Something must click in his head then because his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Alright then,” he says.

They edge around the room, carefully slipping through the crowd so that Uriel, who is standing right by the main doors, doesn’t see them. Crowley motions towards a door to their left. They surreptitiously slip through the doorway unnoticed and into a room devoid of any other people. Aziraphale glances around the space.

“What are we doing?”

“Running away.”

“Ru—_running away?_ I thought we’d just...” His voice falters awkwardly. What had he been expecting? “Hope she leaves soon?”

“Nah, this’ll be faster and more fun.”

“But there’s only one exit.”

“If we’re talking doors, then yes.” Crowley walks across the room and pulls aside the curtains. He works the window open and a gust of wind blows through.

Aziraphale watches him and inhales sharply. “Are you really suggesting—”

“It’s not that far,” he remarks, leaning his head out the window and peering down. The wind whips his hair wildly around his face. (Aziraphale can’t help but notice how beautiful he looks illuminated in the moonlight.) “Uriel definitely won’t see us. It’s our only way out.” He leans back and smirks at him.

Aziraphale is not sure about this. He doesn’t want to be caught by Uriel, but he doesn’t know if he’s willing to _jump out a window_ either. He hesitates, fidgeting with his ring. 

Crowley’s face changes ever so slightly. “You don’t want to,” he says.

“What if I ruin this body?” Aziraphale asks.

“They’ll just issue you a new one.”

_But I rather_ like _this one._ “That’s far too much paperwork to have to go through just for this. Besides, you don’t think the guests will notice?”

Crowley sighs. He stands and walks over to Aziraphale. “I swear you’ll be fine, angel. I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise.” 

Aziraphale says nothing. He’s thinking.

Crowley watches him for a few moments and then glances in the other room through the doorway. “Oh, hey,” he says, “Uriel’s coming this way.”

_“What?”_ Aziraphale’s level of panic is through the roof at this point. He watches Crowley return to the window and swing his legs over the side. “You’re—you’re just going?”

“Well, personally, I’m not interested in getting into a fistfight with an angel,” he replies with a shrug. (They both know it’s not a fistfight that will come, but it’s something equally unpleasant.) “You should come.”

He waits a moment, in which he glances behind him and swallows. He looks back at Crowley and says, “Oh, alright.”

Crowley smiles and then he jumps.

Aziraphale follows him with a hidden smile of his own.

* * *

The streets are quiet at night. Most people are in their homes by this hour. Above them, the dark sky twinkles with stars that shine with an effervescent glow.

Aziraphale doesn’t know much about stars. Most had been mapped out already when he came into being, so he never gave them much thought. It was never his department, anyway. Still, he likes them. He can’t tell you anything about them, but he likes them. Maybe someday he’ll go to them.

They walk, the two of them, through the streets. Nothing except the stars are watching them. (Well, God is watching. She always is. In fact, She’s smiling.) 

Aziraphale peers over at Crowley’s face, half-hidden in the darkness, as a thought occurs to him. “Sorry,” he says, “for making you leave the party earlier. You didn’t get to...ah, whatever it is you were going to do.”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Crowley replies dismissively. “I’m sure the humans will be able to come up with something even more terrible on their own. They’re rather good at that. It makes my job so much easier.”

“You mean it lets you take credit for work you haven’t done.”

“Would you rather I actually _do_ evil things?”

“You’re a _demon_, that’s supposed to be your thing.”

“It’s more of a job than a personality trait, angel.” 

“Is it now?”

The sound of feet hitting the cobblestone echoes in the street as two young women run past them. Laughing, their joined hands dip in and out of the shadows the moonlight casts. 

“Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Back there, why were you so afraid of Uriel?”

Aziraphale stills and glances up at Crowley in surprise. Crowley’s face has lost its previous levity. “I wasn’t _afraid,”_ Aziraphale says. “No angel is afraid of another angel. I simply didn’t want them to know I was there.”

“No, angel.” Crowley is staring at him. “You were scared. What did they do to make you fear them?”

(He thinks about their words, sickly sweet and laced with distaste, and the cold disappointment in their gazes as they tower above him. Every moment with them is a reminder that _somehow_ he is _different,_ that _somehow_ he is _wrong._ The worst part is that he believes them. They’re angels after all. They must be right. And so it can’t be bad what they say to him—they do it for his own good. Most importantly, he is still one of them.)

“We angels completely trust one another,” Aziraphale says, the words leaving his tongue as he’s been taught. “I’m not sure what it’s like for you demons, but I really wasn’t afraid in the least. I have no reason to be.”

“Aziraphale, they don’t need your loyalty—”

“It’s not loyalty, it’s just the truth.”

“If you just—”

“Crowley,” he pleads, “leave it be.” 

_(Please. Don’t make me question.)_

The demon stiffens at his words. “Alright, angel,” he mumbles and that’s that.

They turn a corner. A church stands before them— tall and beautiful and intimidating. It’s quite the elaborate piece of architecture, with stunning stained glass windows, stone statues carved into the side, and an ornate wooden door. Simultaneously, they stop to look at it.

“Have you ever been inside a church?”

“No. Demons don’t go into churches.”

Aziraphale notes how softly Crowley says the words. “The inside of this one is quite beautiful,” he says.

“Humans do like that—making their places of worship grand and everything.”

“I suppose it’s to please God.”

“Does it though?” From behind the glasses, Crowley’s eyes slide to meet Aziraphale’s. His gaze is skeptical. “Please God?”

“I-I believe so,” Aziraphale replies, although he’s not very sure about that. 

Crowley chuckles low.

“Well, it’s hard to know what the Almighty really thinks of everything,” he continues and then his tone becomes softer. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time now.” No matter what the other angels say, the Almighty has not given any indication of what She intends for the world in recent times. So he’ll just keep doing what he thinks is right and wait.

His companion doesn’t say anything. He just nods slightly and looks back at the church.

Beside him, Aziraphale watches the demon. He feels a little shy, all of a sudden, in his presence. They’re standing rather close together (but still, far apart—_so, so far apart_) and there’s a strange fluttery feeling in his chest. He looks up at Crowley’s face and wonders what he’s thinking. His face is blank as it tilts to gaze up at the church. Yet, it carries a subtle gentleness, a kind Aziraphale has not seen before in him.

For a long time, Aziraphale has tried to deny to himself that Crowley is anything more than a willfully evil demon. He’s known from the beginning that he isn’t. But, Crowley is a direct contradiction to everything he was taught about demons, and that can be difficult to come to understand for an angel like Aziraphale who just _believes_ so strongly. Still, little by little he’s come to know Crowley. And sure, he’s snarky and annoys others just for the enjoyment of their frustration, but—he’s kind and gentle. Aziraphale has come to terms with the fact that they are _not_ enemies and that he is _certainly_ not a creature of evil. 

However, there’s always been one burning question in the back of his mind and as he looks at Crowley, it surges forth: Can an angel touch a demon? He knows _they_ don’t—it’s always been like that. But what might happen if they did?

His hand slowly raises itself to hover just below the crook of Crowley’s left arm. His fingers flex just slightly, barely brushing up against his coat sleeve.

At one point, he recalls, he was told that demons burn at the touch of anything holy. It’s why Crowley can’t step into a church. And—angels are holy. So if they touched—

“Would it hurt you?”

The words slip out, ever so soft. 

“What—going in there?” Crowley is looking up at the church. “Oh, yeah, it really would. Holy ground and all that. Ngh. Not good for demons. It even stings a little to look at. I don’t think anything is worth stepping in a place laced with so much holiness.”

Aziraphale is silent. That odd feeling flutters in his chest again. He draws his hand back and folds it with the other behind his back. It’s not the question he was asking nor the answer he wanted, but perhaps it’s better not to know. (Because, it would hurt him to hurt Crowley. Because, it would be harder to stop himself if he knew he wouldn’t hurt him.)

“I suppose I should be on my way then,” Crowley says, turning his gaze back to Aziraphale. His serpentine eyes shine in the darkness. “You have places to be, I’m sure.”

“Hm? Oh, uh, yes, yes,” Aziraphale manages to reply. He wishes he had some reason to keep Crowley and then, surprised by the wish, chides himself for the thought. “It was lovely seeing you, Crowley.”

“Yeah.” Briefly, it seems like he wants to say something, but he only turns away. “I’ll see you around, angel.”

And so it ends.

Aziraphale turns to look up at the church and wonders just how he got here.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley for a few months. (This is fine; he’s used to going decades without even hearing from them. It doesn’t make it any less lonely, however.) The next time he does, it’s summer; he stands outside in the street, watching as all of London descends into chaos in a single night.

It came thrice before this. (It came and left and it will come again.) It comes now with an apprehension that lingers and aches in the bones. The humans know there’s something amiss. They remember the stories. But no one sees it until it’s too late.

(It has already taken its first victim.)

It starts with a young man complaining to his mother about cold shivers and headaches. It starts with a sudden sweat burning through his delirium. It starts with him closing his eyes and believing rest will cure him.

It starts just like that; and in a few hours, it’s already over.

People fall over in their homes and in the streets as their exhaustion gives way to eternal sleep. Their loved ones weep and scream and stumble back; they hold their children to their chests as the dead are carried away. (It is not for the young and old that it comes for. It comes for the ones who least expect it and it kills.) Panic spreads through the city as it does, and the very ground the bodies are immediately buried in shakes with sorrow. They pray—but what does praying do?

The humans die and die and die again.

It’s all too much for Aziraphale, but still he watches. (How can he look away?) His heart is heavy in his chest. He doesn’t understand. Are they being tested? _Tested for what?_ He thinks, pained, as a woman suddenly collapses in the street and never rises again. He knows there’s nothing he can do for them but he also can’t help the wretched guilt curdling in his stomach. 

He doesn’t doubt; that wouldn’t be very angelic of him. This is all for the Great Plan, he insists to himself. This is all for the Greater Good. But _still._

A baby cries for its mother.

_Why?_

It’s then that Aziraphale notices something across the street—a cloaked figure standing in the shadows. Their red hair shimmers like starlight. Golden eyes watch the madness laid out in front of them, cold and resigned and aching. There’s a twitch with every scream.

He suddenly yearns for nothing else but to reach out and hold them, just to be near, just to cradle them in his arms and gently soothe all the pain. _(Let me understand you. Let me comfort you. Let me in.)_

Crowley doesn’t look back; they turn and disappear into the darkness.

And Aziraphale feels very, very cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Namanare is an early form of sushi created a bit before the 16th century, I believe, so Aziraphale’s love for it was something fun I wanted to add in! Also, the disease mentioned is The Sweating Sickness, which had a major outbreak in London in 1528. People usually died within the first few hours of contracting the disease.


	3. Chapter 3

LONDON, 1941

The bomb hits. Smoke and flame and bits of stone engulf everything as the ear-splitting noise cuts through the cold night air. Loud crashes follow after as the building collapses into rubble.

Eventually, the dust settles. The whirring of the planes fades into the distance. Small flames crackle low within the wreckage.

An angel brushes the soot off of himself, muttering quietly about the horrid state of his beige coat. Beside him, a demon cleans it off of his sunglasses. Their gazes meet—and are both somewhat uncertain.

“That was...very kind of you,” Aziraphale says. He feels a tad bit reserved, now that it’s just them.

“Shaddup,” Crowley growls but his tone is light. Aziraphale watches him place the glasses back on his nose with a tinge of disappointment.

“Well,” he says, “it was.”

“Just don’t go around saying that. Still a demon.”

Not like Aziraphale could have forgotten. Still, he directs his concern elsewhere. “Dear, how are your feet?” he asks, unable to help the worried frown from crossing his face. “Do they still hurt?”

“Nah, nah,” Crowley replies airily, but from the way he’s standing, it’s obvious that he’s lying.

“I can’t _believe_ you just walked into a church like that,” he huffs. “Although, the situation would have been extremely inconvenient for me if you hadn’t...oh, it really was absolutely vile of them to trick me into giving them the books that way—”

It suddenly occurs to Aziraphale that his hands are empty.

_Oh, dear._

“Oh, the books!” he exclaims, a hand flying to his forehead. “I forgot _all_ the books!” He looks around but there’s nothing but burning rubble at their feet. His only thought had been to save Crowley and himself. He hadn’t even considered the books. (Just Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, _save_ Crowley.) How could he have been so fool-headed? 

As Aziraphale blabbers on about how much worse the situation has become, he sees out of the corner of his eye Crowley bend down and lift up a bag. His voice falters. The only thing he can do is stare as the demon extends the bag _with the books_ out to him. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he says and smiles.

Wordlessly, Aziraphale reaches for the handle. His plump fingers rest extremely close to Crowley’s; a moment and then Crowley’s slide away. (He always lets go.)

“Lift home?” the demon says in a way that’s not really a question, and moves past him.

Aziraphale forgets how to breathe. He holds the bag to his chest, fingers curling over the spot where Crowley’s once were, watches Crowley hop back and forth on his burned feet as he walks—and just like that he knows.

_I lo—_

He flushes bright red.

_Love,_ he thinks and his heart flutters. _I love him._

Aziraphale loves him.

_Oh,_ he _loves_ him.

“Angel, hurry up,” Crowley calls from the street.

Aziraphale stares down at him. He’s suddenly filled with an aching longing to just reach for his hand and hold it without any plans to ever let go. (But no, no, not yet. He has to think about this first.) Carefully stepping over loose stones, he makes his way over to Crowley, who waits for him with an impatient expression on his face.

When they reach the Bentley, Crowley opens the passenger’s seat door and Aziraphale slides in with a small nod, his eyes quickly shifting down and away from Crowley.

The other door opens and slams shut. Crowley takes off his hat. He runs a hand through his vibrant hair, which while cut short, has curly side bangs that rest loosely against his forehead. (Aziraphale likes the new look. Much better than the sideburns.) Crowley turns on the ignition and pulls the Bentley out onto the street.

Aziraphale is—staring at him. Wide-eyed, lips parted just slightly, and with what seems to be a permanent blush on his heated face, he watches Crowley and tries to understand his feelings.

Maybe—maybe he isn’t in love with him. After all, it’s _Crowley,_ who is a _demon_. But oh, who is mostly just _Crowley_—wily and cunning and absolutely brilliant and walked through a church just to save him and who he wishes would stay by his side for all of eternity.

Aziraphale inhales.

Right, so he is definitely and irrefutably in love with him.

He has been for a while, he realizes. Since the 1500s at least, since _Eden,_ perhaps. Because Crowley has always been there for him and never needed anything in return. Sure, there was The Arrangement, but there had always been...other times, times that had nothing to do with that when Crowley would just _do_ things for him. And what Aziraphale has done just now proves how in love he is with Crowley—he hadn’t even thought about saving the books, he had only wanted to protect Crowley.

Rather than nervousness or panic, Aziraphale feels a numb quietness settle within him. (Although, perhaps numb isn’t the most accurate word. It’s a soft _oh_ that escapes from the lips of someone who has just discovered something unexpected. It’s a gentle smile that appears when something is finally understood. It’s happy—and just a little bit sad.) Love is a wonderful thing, he knows. He can always sense it brimming with warmth and goodness. Now he can feel it within himself: want and joy intermingling within his heart. And Aziraphale knows that he has _so much love_ to give and to share. He can love. He can feel it.

But—what does it mean to love Crowley? 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Crowley’s voice floats over the whirring of the car. His gaze is set firmly on the road. “You alright?”

It reminds Aziraphale that they have not spoken in 79 years. The last time they saw each other was in the park, when Crowley asked for holy water. (Even remembering the request sends a tingle of cold apprehension along his spine.) They had fought and parted ways; he remembers the bitter taste he felt in his mouth after. But the time they were apart shouldn’t have impacted him. They’d gone on longer without the other before. Still, it had never been due to an argument. And they had been seeing each other more frequently in recent years. A visit to the opera. Lunch at the newest restaurant. Just passing time together at his newly opened bookshop. It was like they had entered into a world of their own, uncertain but comfortable.

It’s funny, though maybe more accurately _heartbreaking,_ how a simple favor can shatter the illusion.

“What if my people knew that I was—was _fraternizing_ with demons!” he had hissed, the shock making his words so cruel, so truthfully cruel.

He hurt Crowley.

It was enough for him to stay away.

Aziraphale did not seek him out either. He busied himself with the bookshop, wallowing in his loneliness and trying to convince himself that he had been _right._ Surely, he was justified in his reaction. Surely, it was better that he didn’t see him anymore.

Surely...

Nevermind that, why did Crowley _come?_ Aziraphale was under the impression that he was hated, that it was _over._

“I thought you didn’t want to be with me anymore,” Aziraphale finally says, softly, softly, softly.

Crowley’s eyes whip over to him, wide and yellow. “No, angel, I—” He stops, like he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, and turns his gaze back to the road. “Never. Not over that.”

Relief, aching relief, floods through him at his response. But he has to ask: “Do you still want it?

_Say no. Just one word. Please._

Crowley says nothing and then he says, “Yes.”

Aziraphale’s hands tighten their grip on the bag. “I’m still against it.”

He lets out a little huff of air and half-smiles. “I know, Aziraphale.”

He doesn’t understand. His heart aches. He looks down at his lap and then back up again to say, “Thank you for coming. I-I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Awh, I don’t need thanks. You needed help. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

(In truth, he wasn’t at all. He’d have to deal with that later. But his angel needed him and he would do anything and everything for him.)

“But still, you—I mean—in a church—you must—” Aziraphale struggles to find the right words as he remembers the way Crowley had waltzed in just like that, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t been _gone_ for 80 years.

“It’s not a big deal, angel. Really.” The words are delivered gently, but something about them makes Aziraphale feel like they shouldn’t discuss it anymore.

“So what have you been up to?” he asks instead. His voice is still soft, though he’s not quite sure why.

“Oh,” says Crowley. “I’ve been asleep.”

“Well, I assumed that, but I actually meant what have you been _doing?”_

“No, I’ve just been sleeping.” He glances at him. “Really. I only woke up a year ago.” 

“You’ve...been asleep?” Aziraphale is bewildered by this. It shows in his face. “This whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“After the meeting in the park? For _over 70 years?_ My dear boy…”

“It wasn’t so bad. Very refreshing, you know. It’s just...just felt like I needed to.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says. He really doesn’t. (Although it’s really quite obvious. But this angel can be extremely stubborn about things that are in conflict with his beliefs. Well, in this case, he’s just thick-headed. He sees the connection between but not the cause-and-effect of the park incident and Crowley sleeping.)

“What about you?” Crowley asks. 

“Oh, well, I’ve been busy with a bookshop.” The thought of it cheers Aziraphale up immediately and he turns to Crowley, his lips forming a bright smile. “You should really drop by; I’ve added an entirely new section for my ancient manuscripts and categorized them by their 1000th character! And I’ve really done the place up more. Oh, we could dine at the new crêperie across the street as well! It’s not nearly as good as that time in France, but they have a delicious cinnamon apple crêpe you ought to try. Ah…” Aziraphale stops as it suddenly occurs to him that Crowley might not want to do that with him anymore. Even if he said that he still wants to see him, perhaps it’s all too much at once. His face falls and he can feel the blooming love within his chest wilt ever so slightly. “But...well, we don’t have to, of course.”

The car stops at a traffic light. Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale, leaning an arm against the wheel. His eyes are unreadable behind his glasses from this angle. For a few moments, he seems to consider Aziraphale’s words. (A car honks behind them, but they both ignore it.) Then he lets out a short huff of air and smiles crookedly. “Yeah, angel,” he says, “I’d like that.”

_Oh, I really do love him,_ thinks Aziraphale as he watches that smile and offers Crowley one of his own. Then he thinks, _and I really want to kiss him right now_ and _that_ makes him turn his head away and towards the street in embarrassment. “Crowley, it’s green.”

“Oh, right.”

The Bentley rears into motion and they begin speeding down the street. The angel has to grip onto the sides of the car in surprise. (Still, as always, he’s careful that he doesn’t grab onto Crowley.) He groans.

“_Crowley,_ you’re going _too fast_!”

Crowley only laughs and turns on the radio. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know the song—he never does. But Crowley hums along, mumbling the lyrics under his breath. And that’s quite alright with Aziraphale. He likes to listen.

It’s a wonderful feeling to discover you’re in love with your best friend. Aziraphale cradles the feeling within his palms, just gently holding it, like he’s afraid for its fragility. It’s not really fragile at all, though. Over the course of thousands of years, it has grown and strengthened into a part of Aziraphale that has always been there, even if he couldn’t sense it. But its warmth has solidified more that he knows.

It then occurs to him that he ought to _tell_ Crowley that he loves him, as it’s such a delightful new development, and he begins to do so, facing Crowley and opening his mouth—

And then—

And then—

Well, and then Aziraphale remembers that Crowley does not love him back.

The feeling flickers and his now trembling grip on it loosens.

Crowley has never given him any indication that he loves him. It’s been so long—if he did, he would have _said_ something. Surely. Demons are all about indulging in desires. (Yes; but unfortunately, not Crowley in the matters of the heart.) If he felt any desire to touch him in the way Aziraphale wants to, he _would_ have. But never—

(His heart aches.)

—they’ve never touched.

Angels sense love. As a concept, love is very diverse in all its forms. Aziraphale can recognize them all wherever he goes. And he has never sensed any feelings of romantic love in Crowley for him. (It would help to know that Aziraphale just doesn’t realize he senses Crowley’s love _all the time_. He thinks that all-encompassing warmth belongs to the _Earth_ rather than to _Crowley_. It has always existed, after all, once Aziraphale knew what love was and that he could sense it. In fact, Crowley’s love is how they always seem to be able to find each other. Works kind of like a magnet. But not really.)

He briefly entertains the idea that Crowley might not be able to love at all, being a demon. That’s what he’s always been told, at least. God’s love abandoned demons when they Fell so they can’t love anything anymore as a consequence. But he’s _seen_ Crowley love things. He’s seen the love he has for this car, for clever human inventions, for the humans themselves—especially children. No, Aziraphale decides. Crowley loves.

So it’s not that Crowley can’t love, it’s that he can’t love _him_. 

And that is such a terribly depressing thought that Aziraphale’s brain shuts down.

(A corner of himself flickers dimly. He closes his eyes—does not want to see it. He doesn’t want to think anymore. It hurts to think, so he won’t. He stumbles through the darkness of his empty mind, away from the flickering light.

Love, love, love—love won, love lost. It was _in his hands_ and now he can’t find it. 

And then he looks down and sees that he’s still holding his love in his hands. It’s still there. It’s still warm. It’s still real.

But oh, he has opened his eyes.)

He realizes then that even if—_though_—Crowley doesn’t reciprocate his romantic feelings, _he_ wouldn’t be able to act on his own feelings anyway. What would Heaven say? What would they do? Would he—

—Fall.

And if they—Heaven _and_ Hell—knew that an angel loved Crowley, surely they would hurt or destroy him as well. At the very least, they would never see each other again. It would be over. For good, this time. It would be something no apology could fix. 

So, these wonderful feelings of his could only cause pain. It would do neither of them any good to speak the words aloud. But—but if he just hides his feelings away, if he never acts on them or speaks them aloud, maybe that’ll be alright. 

Aziraphale looks into Crowley’s face.

As long as he’s with him, it’s okay. He can live with silently loving him if it means protecting them. To preserve what they have now, he would do anything. He can’t risk ruining that. He’s too afraid of what might happen. But as long as Crowley is beside him like this forever, that’s alright.

“Euggh, this blasted song,” Crowley groans and shuts off the radio. “Nhgh,” he adds for emphasis.

“Was that one different from the other...songs?” Aziraphale asks innocently, just to annoy him.

Crowley turns his head. His glasses are shifted down in a way that shows the horror in his eyes as he says, “_Yes_. Obviously, _yes_. Were you even listening? That can’t even be called music.”

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley’s face falls. 

“Angel, you’re killing me here.”

“I’ll keep that in my mind, my dear.” He smiles at his friend and thinks, _I love you_. 

_(I hope you know, even if I can’t say it.)_

Crowley stares at him. Eventually, he breaks eye contact, shaking himself. “Ah, there’s your bookshop,” he remarks.

Aziraphale cranes his neck to see out the window. “Indeed it is. I’m surprised you remember.”

“‘Course I do.”

They slow (_finally_) and the Bentley parks just across the street from the bookshop. Aziraphale points out the crêperie when they step out of the car and Crowley makes a small noise of affirmation.

Together they stroll over to the front door of the bookshop and Aziraphale secretly wishes that each step is a million times longer. But it takes only a few seconds and then they’re there.

Crowley stops just before the steps and smiles. “It was nice seeing you again, angel.”

_Guess he’s not coming in, then._ Aziraphale doesn’t smile back. Something has been bothering him and he decides to mention it. “Crowley, I just wanted to—”

“No, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s still smiling. He shakes his head. “You don’t need to. I get it. It’s all good.”

Aziraphale is not wholly convinced; still, he nods and reaches for the door handle. Then he turns back around, brow furrowed. His thumb anxiously runs over the handle of the bag as he hesitantly asks, “So...will I be seeing you again?”

Crowley’s smile widens. “I’ll drop by next Thursday.”

Aziraphale smiles then too, and tells him, “Do knock before you come in.”

“Demons don’t make promises,” he replies and steps away.

“Crowley!”

“Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath. “I...I know the entire situation was probably just a nuisance to you but...I was so happy when you came. So don’t—I know I was at fault as well—but _please_ don’t go away for so long again.” The words come out in a rush, awkward and clunky in his mouth, but he doesn’t regret them. He just hopes the meaning gets across. (Or maybe that they don’t. He’s not quite sure.)

Crowley searches his face, like he’s trying to see something he can’t quite find. His thin serpentine eyes are just barely visible from behind his glasses. He holds his gaze for a moment too long and then, still holding it, quietly says, “I won’t. I promise.”

His lips twitch into a sort-of smile. “I won’t go either, my dear.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley isn’t smiling anymore but his eyes seem to soften. He tips his hat and says, “G’night, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale watches him saunter back to the Bentley and waves as it takes off down the street. Eventually it’s gone from sight. With a small sigh, he opens the door and enters the bookshop. He sets the bag on the floor and carefully hangs his hat and coat on the stand. Then he walks into his small study, seats himself in a chair, and pulls out a pen and paper.

He writes a letter.

He writes of love.

(He writes of Crowley.)

When he finishes, he folds the letter into a small square and holds it to his chest. He sighs again, wistful and fond, and tucks it into one of his many books on the shelves. He’ll remember which one. Just like his heart, it’ll never be opened again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t we all love thinking an actually requited love is unrequited?


	4. Chapter 4

LONDON, 11 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

Crowley and Aziraphale were sober for the five minutes that they created the new arrangement before they immediately went back to drinking truly extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Multiple bottles were emptied and scattered across the room. They spent the rest of the evening telling each other stories from their time apart and reminding each other of old times. At one point Crowley had stood on a table to passionately air guitar along to a song he was hearing in his head as Aziraphale stared up at him with a wonderstruck expression.

Now, Crowley is asleep on the couch. He’s somewhat awkwardly sprawled out against it, his face pressed against a green throw pillow. His chest slowly rises and falls.

Aziraphale watches over him fondly. He can do that when he’s sleeping, when he’s not afraid that Crowley or someone else will see. It’s freeing to do so every now and again. So, he indulges for a moment or two before primly seating himself on a chair beside the sofa and opening up a book.

The clock ticks. Further and further into the night they go as the minutes pass by. Aziraphale—like all angels, and for that matter, like all demons with the exception of one—does not sleep. He tried it once, when he was bored (read: lonely) during the 19th century, and found it to be quite unnecessary and incredibly uncomfortable. This is why he mostly reads through the night or spends the time translating ancient manuscripts instead.

He has never understood why Crowley indulges in sleep. He’s not even sure if he does it for enjoyment or out of habit now or something else entirely. Despite his puzzlement, he has never asked. (Sometimes things don’t need to be understood.) 

It isn’t long before a noise from the couch breaks Aziraphale’s concentration. He looks up from a particularly engaging section of the book to see Crowley squirming about in his sleep.

The demon curls up into himself, murmuring something unintelligible into the pillow. (He is, in fact, calling for his angel.) Aziraphale comes to the conclusion that he must be cold. After being friends for so long, he knows that the snakish aspects of Crowley make him very perceptive to temperature. So he stands up to fetch something that could keep him warm. Taking great care not to brush up against him (remember, _you must never touch him_), Aziraphale covers his friend with a tartan blanket. He can’t help the smile that softly blooms on his gentle features when he sees him snuggle deeper into it. 

And instead of returning to his armchair and book, Aziraphale kneels on the floor and rests his arms against the couch cushions. He pushes down his anxiety, leans his head on his arms, and looks up at Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale has never really properly _seen_ Crowley sleep. He has crashed on this very couch before, but Aziraphale is usually never in the same room as him. What often happens is that the demon will stroll in unannounced, call over to Aziraphale that he has come for a nap, and promptly fall asleep on the couch. Although he has never verbalized this, his presence is a comfort to Aziraphale, even while asleep and out of sight. He feels much more at peace with his energy so near him. It has such an effect on him that it even makes him slightly less snappish with customers that are becoming too touchy with his collection. (This does not mean he lets them purchase anything. What is he, a bookseller?) But he is usually so busy with other things that when he eventually goes to check in on Crowley, he will already be up and asking him if he wants to try the new Greek restaurant that has opened on the corner.

So there is something new about seeing Crowley mid-sleep. He seems—softer somehow. His face appears more serene now that his brows aren’t deeply furrowed in annoyance, although the serenity is a bit offset by his open yellow eyes. 

Being somewhat of a snake, Crowley does not have eyelids. However, he’s also somewhat of a demon (and an angel, and a human, but there’s no time to explain all that), so he has learned to have eyelids. This does require a little bit of concentration to do, which is why when he’s asleep, he doesn’t bother with them. The only sign that he’s not awake is the thin, milky sheen covering his eyes that leaves his expression blank and empty.

Still, he looks so much less pained while asleep. It’s a little reassuring for Aziraphale to see him like this, without the hardened shell he has built around himself. For while he believes that the two of them are close friends now, he has always felt the distance between them. (Not that he hasn’t created some of that very distance himself.) He searches his face, letting his gaze linger on places he would not normally dare, before resting on his fiery-red hair. It’s longer than it has been for a while now, though not nearly as long as it was during their days in Eden. Aziraphale likes it long. (Though, and this is no exaggeration, he likes everything about Crowley and would love him in any form he presented himself in.) He likes how it falls on his shoulders in amber waves, curling gently at the ends. 

He wonders what touching it might feel like. How might it feel in his hands? How might he be able to sense the gentle warmth and softness radiating from him? How might it be to worship every hair on his head? Aziraphale easily believes he could spend hours combing through his red curls just to feel him, just to _touch_ him. He’s never touched him before.

He thinks, I want to touch him.

_(I want to touch him.)_

A lock of hair falls into Crowley’s eyes. Without giving much thought to it, Aziraphale’s hand reaches up to brush it away. His fingers freeze just a hair’s length away from contact. 

Aziraphale inhales.

Then Crowley’s eyes suddenly focus.

Aziraphale’s hand jerks back like it’s been touched by hellfire. He unsuccessfully tries to school his alarmed expression into something calmer. Shame turns his ears a pinkish red. What was he thinking? (It’s obvious what he was thinking, but _why_?) Damn his ridiculous desires and unrequited feelings—he should never have let himself be lost in the dangerous longing of _what if_.

“What issss it, angel?” Crowley’s speech is slurred—and damn his _heart_ for thinking it was adorable—the hiss coming through just slightly as he wakes from his nap.

“Er,” he says. “I was just—well—” 

It’s not that Aziraphale has serious qualms about lying, no matter what he thinks a respectable principality should believe in. He did, after all, lie directly to God’s face about what he did with the flaming sword. It’s just that he’s not incredibly good at it. Lying requires all the components of quick thinking, flexible reality, and believable imagination. It’s safe to say that Aziraphale struggles here. (Even if he were able to pull off a convincing lie, it wouldn’t have made a difference, as unbeknownst to him, Crowley has spent 6000 years studying the angel’s movements and behaviors with such unparalleled, focused dedication that he can spot abnormalities in Aziraphale at a glance.) 

Crowley sits up, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes. “Angel?” His eyes flick to the side. “...Your hand’s just hovering there.”

“Oh!” It quickly lowers itself onto his lap. He forgot that he left his hand in frozen motion, too occupied with a wave of panic to remember where his hand _should_ have been. Which is on his lap. And nowhere _near_ Crowley.

“There was a fly,” Aziraphale offers lamely.

“What?” It’s like Crowley’s words have been dipped in the thick molasses of disbelief. “Near my _face_?”

“Well, it’s not _so_ unbelievable, is it?”

“Coming from you? I _nudged_ a bee once an’ you wouldn’t _speak_ to me until I apologized.”

“Crowley, you whacked it away quite aggressively with your hand while we were having a picnic, and I don’t think bringing that up justifies any—”

“Angel.”

Aziraphale sometimes forgets how yellow Crowley’s eyes are. Since he wears sunglasses nearly all the time, he doesn’t get to look at them as often as he likes. He prefers it when he can see what the demon is feeling through his eyes. Crowley has always been extremely expressive physically—his actions often revealing more than his words—but there is something special and almost intimate about staring into that golden-yellow, thin-slit gaze. 

Crowley looks at him now with that gaze. He’s asking—and if Aziraphale were to look deeper into it (he doesn’t, he tells himself, he _won’t_) he might just see _what_ he is asking. But nevertheless the question, he is _asking_, and a part of Aziraphale wants to finally answer.

(He regrets saying it, a little later. Even much later does he still regret it, although for a very different reason.)

He looks down at his hand, the traitorous one, and then back at Crowley. “I was wondering what your hair felt like,” he admits softly.

The yellow in Crowley’s eyes nearly swallow the slitted pupils. He almost hesitantly feels a tuft of his hair, furrowing his sharp eyebrows, and looks around the room briefly before returning to Aziraphale’s face, and then, swallowing awkwardly.

“Ssssso,” he says and stops. “_So_—didya...I mean..._touch_…?” His voice sounds oddly strangled.

_Oh dear, I_ knew _he’d be horrified_, Aziraphale thinks and says, “No.”

“Okay,” says Crowley though he doesn’t sound okay at all.

“I’m really sorry, my dear boy,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster. (He’s rather torn between ravaging guilt and not finding he should have anything to apologize for.) “Got a little, ahm, curious, I suppose. Didn’t mean to offend, really.”

Crowley’s still running his fingers through his hair, like he’s trying to understand something. Then he lowers his hand. Fidgets a little. Looks up and says, “I mean—you can touch it if you’d like.”

(What follows shouldn’t be held against Aziraphale. He _is_ still afraid, after all, even though so much time has passed. They both are. But Aziraphale’s fear is tied to something else entirely, which will take another eleven years to unravel and many more to be freed. This whole situation might be seen as Aziraphale’s fault—which it is—and which might make it all the more infuriating, but it’s important to understand that he thinks he is protecting a number of things. Himself, first, because he can be quite self-centered, as partly evidenced by the complete lack of awareness that his feelings for Crowley are reciprocated by the other. Crowley, because only Heaven—or Hell, really—knows what could happen to him if they are found out. And them, because what really _are_ they? He does not want to tarnish their current relationship by breaking the first rule they ever established. So frankly, Aziraphale is just not _good_ at facing his fears. But much like lying will, it comes to him one day.)

For a moment, Aziraphale lets himself imagine what it would be like touching Crowley’s flaming hair. An image of a sleepy Crowley comes to him, where he leans against him as he gently runs his hands through it. The him in his imagination bends down to nuzzle his head of hair, breathing in the comforting smell of shampoo and Crowley—Crowley—_Crowley_. Crowley laughs. Crowley leans up.

Crowley looks tense. His head tilts to the side as he waits, like he’s feigning casualness, but his gaze flits nervously around the room.

The angel shoes away his thoughts with a firm smile.

_I’m sorry, Crowley; we can’t._

He isn’t ready.

“My, it seems like we’re both a little drunk.”

It’s a rejection.

Crowley doesn’t say anything—just slumps back and scratches his neck and roughly shoves his sunglasses back onto his nose.

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. Then he claps his hands together and says as cheerily as he can muster, “Well, we’d better sober up and get to developing a plan to prevent incoming Armageddon! Not a lot of time left, as I'm sure you know.” He stands up and walks over to his desk, where he starts to sort through the papers scattered across its surface. (His chest hurts. He wills it to leave him, but sometimes you can’t. Longing is not something that goes easily. But—he _is_ an angel who has had 6000 years to suppress his improper feelings towards Crowley, so while he can’t will it to leave him, he can push it behind his heart where he can’t see it. He tells himself there’s no point, since Crowley would never love him. He tells himself that it’s better this way. It isn’t, but Aziraphale isn’t quite done becoming himself. Wait just a little longer.)

Crowley makes a sort of noncommittal noise but obediently rises from his spot on the couch to stand beside Aziraphale. They quickly fall back into their normal rhythm of light-hearted banter as they discuss what happens next. It’s how it always has been. Aziraphale is grateful for that. (Crowley isn’t, but he lets it go.)

Neither of them mentions the fact that there’s no need to make themselves sober since they had already done so before Crowley fell asleep. But that’s alright.

They know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and still more pining, of course. Az just wants to play with his hair. :( But let's be real—_I_ want to play with his hair. I’m very much projecting.
> 
> Apologies for the heavy Aziraphale POV content; the next chapter will finally have Crowley's perspective again! I promise promise promise the angst/pining will eventually be resolved, we just need a little longer to go.


	5. Chapter 5

LONDON, 5 YEARS BEFORE ARMAGEDDON

The flowers are wilting.

Crowley brushes against the petals of a discolored peony with a gloved finger and lets out a small tsking noise.

Beside her, Warlock is frowning. “But I don’t _want_ to go,” he says again.

She looks down at him and sighs. “Warlock, we’ve been over this. You have to.”

The two of them are taking a leisurely stroll together through the grounds of the Dowling estate. Mrs. Dowling wanted Warlock to have his new suit tailored that morning but Crowley had insisted that the boy needed to stretch his legs. The woman had eventually relented, although she had pursed her lips in the way she always did when she disapproved of something. Warlock, on the other hand, had happily followed his nanny out into the gardens, a small toy elephant in hand—the one the gardener had given to him on his sixth birthday.

“It’s stupid.”

“Well, complaining to me won’t do you any good.”

“My birthday was _last_ month though. I don’t get why they’re acting like it wasn’t. And I know Dad is going to make me do something dumb with him.”

She holds out a hand and he takes it sullenly. She feels pity for the boy, and although she has more than a few issues with the parenting style of the Dowlings (which was, really, non-existent), she has made sure never to voice them aloud to Warlock. He doesn’t need her to confirm it. In her heart, she still hopes it’ll work out, even though she knows it won’t. So she kneels down to make level eye contact with him. “Be good at your lunch with your parents,” she says, “and when you get back I’ll teach you another swear word.” She’s taught him a few already. One of the best things about language.

His face lights up—the cheek. “Promise?”

“Only if you’re good,” she reminds him, ruffling his hair, and then standing up. “And _no more complaining_,” she adds. It gives her a headache.

He sticks out his tongue at her.

As they continue to walk, Crowley notices more and more plants and flowers wilting beneath the blue sky. It’s puzzling since Aziraphale usually takes such good care of them. She knows that he does it through miracles, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Odd.

“Warlock, my little terror, do you know where Brother Francis is?”

The boy takes a moment to scan the gardens and then points a tiny finger at an apple tree on the edge of the estate.

She has to squint, but there he is—a small tan shape in the distance, lying in the shade of the apple tree. (A quiet wave of relief washes over her to know that he’s here, that he’s safe. At times, she worries that something might go wrong. But he’s still here. They still have The Plan.)

“Can we go see him?” Warlock asks hopefully, blue eyes wide. “I _promisepromisepromise_ I’ll be good!”

“Oh, alright,” she says, like she’s giving in, although her lips curl into a smile at the thought.

They turn and begin walking in that direction—Crowley silently cursing her heels—and after a bit, eventually near the apple tree. Aziraphale sees them coming and waves.

Crowley isn’t in the least bit surprised when Warlock takes off running; he always loves spending his mornings with Aziraphale. She continues to walk at a steady pace, observing as far ahead of her, Warlock lets out a shout and flings himself into Aziraphale’s arms. She can faintly hear Aziraphale laugh—and while it’s not quite _Aziraphale’s_ laugh, it still gives her a fuzzy feeling in her chest.

Warlock is in the middle of telling Aziraphale about the practical joke he played on the cook when Crowley finally reaches the apple tree. Aziraphale’s eyes are on the boy as he listens intently to his words, but he looks up at Crowley when she stops beside them. At the sight of her, his face blooms into a gorgeous smile.

Crowley stiffens. Her eyebrows pull back in alarm as she tries to untangle herself from the complete mess she has become from that smile alone. She blinks and the blooming smile is gone—replaced by Brother Francis’ kind one.

“Hullo, Nanny,” he says cheerily.

“Good morning, Brother Francis,” she says in return and seats herself on the grass on the opposite side of Warlock.

“Young Master Warlock was just here telling me about a practical joke he played on Mrs. Ronley,” Aziraphale explains, gesturing to him.

Warlock grins and leans in to whisper loudly, “Nanny gave me the idea!”

Aziraphale looks over at her with eyebrows raised. “Did she now?”

She smiles placidly and shrugs.

“Oh, Brother Francis, Brother Francis!” Warlock says excitedly, bouncing up and down as he shakes Aziraphale’s arm. “You said you’d bring me a present!”

“Woah-ho, calm down there young master,” Aziraphale tells him and chuckles. “Yes, yes. I made a promise, after all. It’s always good to make do on your promises.” 

From behind him, he pulls out a small book.

“_Winnie-the-Pooh_?” Crowley reads the title on the cover aloud as Warlock lets out a squeal, grabbing the book and flipping through the pages. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says proudly. “I read it to him so often when he was little. Wanted to have his own copy, he did.”

She has never read _Winnie-the-Pooh_, but she knows how much Aziraphale loves the thing. (_Goodness, could he be any more precious_?) With a curious expression, she leans over Warlock’s shoulder and peers down at the words. “Is there a lot of blood and death in there?” she asks him. It’s what he’s _supposed_ to be reading about, according to Hell, at least.

Warlock giggles and says, “_No_!”

“Then what’s the point?” she says, looking over at Aziraphale this time, who smiles.

“To enjoy the little things in life. Do you want to listen?”

She scans the grounds for a quick moment. It’s difficult to explain, but a demon can sense more things than a normal human is able to. Right now, she’s looking for any void or “spooky” energy. She does this every now and again, just to make sure no one is watching.

Crowley’s lips twitch. “I suppose I will.”

Warlock leans against her and smiles. “Don’t worry, Nanny,” he says. “I like this and the scary stuff too.”

She pinches his cheeks and he squirms away from her, settling beside Aziraphale and opening up the first page. He points. 

“Read!”

And Aziraphale does. (He doesn’t even have to look at the page.)

“_Chapter One: In Which We Are Introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and Some Bees and the Stories Begin. Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin..._”

It’s cute, both the actual story and the two of them reading together, but Crowley will only admit this to herself. She smiles when she sees Warlock mouthing the words along with Aziraphale, tiny eyes narrowed in concentration, and his toy elephant pressed to his chest. 

Crowley listens for a little while. But sometime around the part about honey and balloons, her mind starts to stray. She ends up watching more than listening. Aziraphale tells the story extremely animatedly, giving every character a voice and adding sound effects here and there to make Warlock laugh. His blue eyes sparkle with warmth and levity, soft lips curved into a wide smile.

It takes Crowley a bit for her to realize that she’s staring at Aziraphale. She’s not sure if she should look away. Somehow she _can’t_. He draws her to him in a way that no one else ever has or will.

They’ve never been so close before. No more waiting or wondering when the next time will be—he’s _right there_. 

It makes every day a good one.

Crowley watches them, noticing a fuzzy feeling filling her chest. She feels at peace, in a way she has never felt it before. She’d like it if it always stayed like this—the three of them enjoying a spring morning together. 

Still, she thinks resigned, it can’t. 

She wonders what will happen when all of this is over, when they’ve stopped the Apocalypse. (Because they have to. She can’t think about if they _don’t_.) Will Aziraphale let her stick around? Can they keep what they have now? She doesn’t know.

That Aziraphale will never love her, she has always had to accept.

No, not even that Aziraphale will never love her; he will never _choose_ her. Because—that’s what really matters. He’ll smile and joke and dine with her but he’ll never _choose_ her. Not over Heaven. Not over everything he believes in.

She’s not enough and she will _never_ be enough.

Crowley has known this for a while now—is reminded of it every time they’re together. It’s not his fault. She understands that it’s hard.

Still, _she will never be enough_.

But—

Aziraphale laughs and she feels her heart swell in her chest.

—she loves him.

(I’ll stay as close as you let me, as long as you’ll have me, for I am yours.)

Aziraphale looks up right then and meets her gaze. Suddenly his face falls slightly and he looks both confused and sad. 

(But why, why am I not good enough?)

He’s not reading anymore. Their locked gaze lasts and lasts. She could get lost in his blue eyes (and he in hers).

Warlock looks between them. (He’s seen this before on numerous occasions. The two of them always claim that they don’t like the other but he sees them. He sees the looks thrown in the other’s direction when they’re not looking. He sees the gifts and the smiles and the way they stand beside each other like they’re two halves of a whole.) 

“Brother Francis,” he says softly, “you’ve stopped reading.”

“What?” Aziraphale blinks, glances down at Warlock, and then back to Crowley, who looks away. “Oh, I—apologies, young master, I just...er, got lost in thought for a moment.”

He reads on, although it’s not quite the same as before. And she doesn’t even try to listen again; she looks out at the grounds and sighs. 

The sun shines down onto them from above. Its light filters in through the tree branches, casting dappled shadows onto the grass. The fresh air carries the light scent of apples. It’s beautiful and it’s peaceful. 

It’s a pity that she can’t help but feel uneasy now.

Eventually, Warlock falls asleep. He’s slumped over in the grass, head resting on Aziraphale’s knee, face a picture of content.

Crowley leans over to brush a few pieces of grass out his hair and then settles her hand on the ground behind her. 

“What a sweet child,” Aziraphale says softly as he looks over the sleeping boy fondly.

“He is, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

She can feel his gaze on her but she’s still watching Warlock. She wonders for his future. “Do you think he’s really happy?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Will he still be happy at the end?”

He smiles, but it’s a bit sad. “Who can be happy at the end?”

Her hand curls. “If the end does come, I’ll choose humanity over him.” (Words hurt when they’re true. And this is a thought of the utmost pain.)

“I know,” Aziraphale says. Then he sighs. “You know, sometimes I wonder if we’re really doing what’s right. After all, we’re just playing a game with him, aren’t we? We’re shaping and forming him into what we think he should be. For the sake of humanity, it must be done. It is right to do so. But for the sake of him…”

“Is he a boy or a monster?” Crowley asks, and it’s so so _quiet_; and now the words are scaring her. (_What am I? Am I a monster? Is that my birthright too_?)

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “he’ll have to be the one to decide that for himself.” He looks down at Warlock and smiles. “And no matter what, when I look back on today, I will be happy.”

Will she? She knows in her heart yes, but her thoughts are stopping her from reaching that conclusion. She pictures being alone again or being forced to hang out with _Hastur_. (They’re both terrible options. She really can’t stand him.)

“Won’t you?”

Crowley sighs. Then she smiles, looking down at her hand. “I will,” she says, tugging gently at the grass, “but I can’t help feeling regretful that it won’t ever be like this again.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. Crowley takes his silence as confusion and doesn’t look up. Then Aziraphale’s left hand comes to rest near Crowley’s, his fingers settling between hers, arching up so that they link together.

Crowley forgets to breathe.

They aren’t touching. Not quite.

They’re just mere millimeters apart from one another—_mere millimeters_. It’s like their hands are being given the illusion of being interlocked.

They’re not quite holding hands, but the _intent_ is there.

Crowley doesn’t understand what this means. She doesn’t pull away, however. She turns her gaze towards Aziraphale to find the answer there, but he is looking down at their hands with an odd expression on his face. Then he looks up at her and she sees that his smile carries a hint of sentimentality.

“Dear,” he says, and the breeze blows through his hair, “we have time.”

His hand stays.

No, she really does not understand what this means. But it doesn’t matter. They stay like that, hands locked but not quite touching, the boy lying asleep in the grass beside them, the brilliant sun bathing them in warm light, and the world is just peaceful.

He won’t choose her, but if she is still allowed to hope, maybe he could.

* * *

On their part, it is a miscalculation that Warlock is there. The boy stands in the doorway to the living room, watching them with wide eyes.

“Ah, young master…” Aziraphale says, the hand holding the resignation papers twitching as if it’s trying to hide what he’s doing.

Crowley watches Warlock’s eyes move between them and his mother and to the papers and back. He’s quiet. He doesn’t understand, not quite, but he _knows_ there’s something going on. Always perceptive, that boy.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

“Honey,” Mrs. Dowling begins to explain, brows furrowed slightly, “Brother Francis and Nanny are resigning—er, leaving us—so they’re not going to come to the house anymore.”

“Why?”

“I’m...not sure.” Mrs. Dowling casts an odd glance in their direction. “It’s very sudden. They told me they were leaving just now.”

“My mother is sick,” explains Crowley.

“My brother needs help caring for his children,” Aziraphale supplies.

Though she still seems somewhat unsure, she says to Warlock, “There you go.” Then she turns back to them. “Of course we’ll accept your resignations, but it really is so sudden. You both have done so much for our family these past few years. I do hope Warlock hasn’t been too much trouble—”

“Your son has been a joy to take care of this entire time,” Crowley interrupts smoothly and smiles in a way that’s not quite genuine—not because she doesn’t mean the words, but because she’s doing her best to hide her annoyance. “It’s been an honor to be his nanny. He has...” —she thinks, considers the word— “...a lot of potential.” She hopes for that potential, at least. It’s what will keep this whole planet from blowing itself to bits.

Mrs. Dowling takes their papers, flips through them, and nods. “Well. Suppose I’ll have to find a new gardener and nanny then,” she says, a little bit of irritation slipping into her tone.

Crowley’s gaze flits to meet Aziraphale’s just briefly, who confirms it with a barely noticeable nod. She clears her throat. “Mrs. Dowling,” she says, “another reason I feel comfortable leaving this position is that I don’t feel that I am needed anymore. After all, Warlock is six. Instead of hiring another nanny, might I suggest a couple tutors?”

Mrs. Dowling blinks. She looks like the thought has never occurred to her. (It hasn’t.) She looks over at her son, who is still staring at the three of them with a lost expression on his face. “Tutors?” she repeats.

“I agree,” says Aziraphale. “He’s a bright young lad. At his age, I think he’d do very well with some schooling.”

“Huh,” says Mrs. Dowling.

“I know two exceptional scholars that would be happy to teach him,” Crowley offers and smiles. “I can leave their contact information with you before I go.”

The woman seems relieved and nods. “I’ll have to have a chat with Ted about it first, but…” She smiles and extends a hand to Aziraphale. “Thank you for all of your years of hard work in the gardens, Brother Francis.”

“My pleasure, marm,” he replies, shaking it.

“And thank you for looking after Warlock,” she says, turning to Crowley. “We all appreciate your...well...” She wrinkles her nose as she continues to smile and goes with, “..._untraditional_ caretaking.”

Crowley is very pleased by this.

They begin to take their leave, but Warlock is still standing in the doorway. His face continues to spiral in confusion.

“When are you coming back?” he asks.

“I’m afraid we aren’t coming back, Young Master Warlock,” Aziraphale says and his eyebrows furrow with compassion.

“But you always do,” he says. “You always come back.”

“Not this time.”

Warlock stares at them and then his eyes fill with tears. “I don’t _want_ you to go!”

“Honey, _don’t cry_,” Mrs. Dowling tells him sternly. “Boys don’t cry.”

“Oh, let him cry if he wants,” Aziraphale says a little too sharply for Brother Francis. Crowley throws him a look but he’s already on his knees and holding out his arms to Warlock. “Come here.”

Tears spill over his cheeks and he runs into his arms. His tiny hands grip onto Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale strokes his hair and murmurs something into his ear.

Mrs. Dowling seems uncomfortable by her son’s tears, wincing at every loud sob he emits. 

Crowley turns to her and says, “Madam, we didn’t mean to disrupt your morning. We’ll just say our goodbyes to Warlock. I’m sure you have things to do.”

She hesitates, throwing a quick look in her son’s direction, and then she nods curtly. She turns and disappears into the next room.

Warlock is still crying, wrapped up in Aziraphale’s great arms. The angel meets Crowley’s gaze. His face is solemn but he manages a small smile at her.

“Warlock, my darling little terror,” Crowley says softly. She doesn’t know how to do a proper goodbye. But she’ll try for him.

He turns to look at her. He sniffs and rubs at his eyes. “Yes, Nanny?” he says somewhat sullenly.

“Promise me you’ll keep throwing bugs into beds and frightening that old crone at the church when I’m gone?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. Crowley privately takes the tiny half-smile as a win.

She opens up her arms. “Do I get a goodbye hug too?”

Warlock stumbles over to her and she encloses him in them. He immediately begins to cry again, blubbering unintelligible things.

_Warlock_, she thinks as she holds him, _no matter what comes or who you become, you were loved here._

Her eyes move up to meet Aziraphale’s; he smiles a little and she looks back down at Warlock.

_Yes, you were loved._

And so it’s easy just to hold him for a little while, as if she were able to shelter him from the cold winds of change.

* * *

“I’ll miss him. Such a charming little boy,” says Aziraphale as they walk away from the house.

“I guess.” She says the words dismissively but feels an odd twinge in her heart.

He looks over at her, and she knows he notices the slump in her proud shoulders, but as always, says nothing about it. Good old Aziraphale.

“Do you think he’ll miss us?”

“I think he will—for a time.”

Aziraphale nods thoughtfully. 

They’re passing through the gardens and once again, Crowley notices the wilting flowers. They seem to be in an even worse state than yesterday. 

“Aziraphale, I’ve been meaning to ask: what’s wrong with the garden?”

The angel’s face saddens and he sighs. “My fault, I’m afraid. Gabriel informed me that there was no point in wasting frivolous miracles on making the garden beautiful since I’m leaving this position. I’m no real gardener so I have no idea how to make them better. It’s been bothering me.”

Crowley doesn’t like seeing that look on Aziraphale’s face. She doesn’t even hesitate; with the snap of her fingers, the garden springs into full bloom. Tall delphiniums, rambling roses, hollyhocks of all hues, wisteria and lavender, foxglove and violets. She smirks, proud, watching as Aziraphale’s expression changes into one of confusion, followed by wonder, and then satisfaction.

“Oh, my dear, I…” He trails off, his broad smiling swallowing his words.

She bends down and plucks a fuschia hollyhock from its stem. With her slender fingers, she extends the flower out to Aziraphale.

He stops for a moment to stare at the hollyhock before his smile turns tender and serene, blue eyes softening. He takes the flower and tucks it behind his ear.

Crowley knows she must have the stupidest grin on her face, but you know what? She doesn’t really care.

A moment later, it starts to rain.

Crowley holds a hand above her head, feeling the cold droplets bounce off her skin. A shiver runs through her spine at the sensation. Ngh. But just as quickly is the feeling gone as Aziraphale pulls out an umbrella with a flourish and holds it over both of their heads.

“Shall we?”

She blinks, allowing herself to be pleasantly surprised, and then nods.

They continue walking through the grounds together as the rain falls around them. Crowley doesn’t like rain; it’s cold and wet and turns the world dark with a sky shrouded in clouds. At least she can’t feel it on her skin anymore. She doesn’t know if Aziraphale knows any of this. Nevertheless, the umbrella and the warmth he gives off are comforting to her.

“I’ve thought about my first lesson as his tutor,” Aziraphale says.

“Mm?”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Aha, so we’re teaching him about syphilis already.” She smiles wickedly. “Bold, angel. I like it.”

“Crowley, I’m not teaching him about _syphilis_,” he replies, sounding appalled. “Obviously we’ll just stick to her contributions to nursing and her altruism.”

She thinks about it for a moment and then says, “Do you remember her having syphilis?”

He has to think too. “Oh, I can’t remember them all,” he finally says.

“Neither can I anymore.”

“Hm. And what about you?”

“Me?” Crowley edges in closer to him to avoid the rain. “Well, I think he’d like Vlad Drakul. The other day Ligur went on this long speech about teaching him ‘_the Darkness Intrinsicate in the Human Spirit_.’” She makes a mockery of the words and they both laugh. The laughter fades as they think about how it will still be something he will have to learn regardless of what they think of it.

“You know, Crowley, when we come back, we won’t be the same.”

“Yeah,” she says, quietly. “It’s better this way, though.”

“Maybe,” he says and then he laughs.

Crowley looks at him quizzically. “Why are you laughing?”

“It’s just—” Aziraphale smiles. “An angel and a demon together like this. Bit odd, isn’t it?”

And Crowley has to laugh too—because it is. Everything between them shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be able to exist. “Quite right, angel.”

“Thing is,” Aziraphale continues, “even though it’s odd, it works.”

And in that moment, it’s just the two of them, sharing an umbrella as they stand against the rest of the world. The rain falls and falls like it always has since that fateful day in Eden when the world had truly begun. On that wall, they had watched the rain together, Aziraphale’s beautiful wing draped over her. (Initially, she had been jealous of the whiteness of them—a reminder of what she no longer had.) She remembers him turning towards her.

He had said only something so painstakingly simple, but it was something that would change her forever.

_Oh, I’ve completely forgotten._

(I would fall again and again just to see your smile.)

_My name is Aziraphale._

She watches the twinkle in his eyes and feels a warmth bloom in her chest. The two of them, against the _whole_ world. Somehow that’s okay.

“Yeah. It does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, here I am, two weeks after my my last update. Typical. If I am completely honest, I am not completely satisfied with this chapter, but I wanted to get it out. Something about the tone/writing of it is off, but ah well.
> 
> A lot of this is based off of the book, which is why Crowley and Aziraphale leave Warlock at age six as "Nanny Ashtoreth" and "Brother Francis" and return as his two new tutors "Mr. Harrison" and "Mr. Cortese". The stuff about Florence Nightingale and syphilis, Vlad Drakul, and the Darkness Intrinisicate in the Human Spirit is directly snatched from the book. Aziraphale loving Winnie-the-Pooh and having it memorized is probably one of my favorite aspects of his character, and that information is from Neil Gaiman himself!
> 
> I said that this chapter would be out a week after the last one and since that didn't work out, I shall only tentatively say a little over two weeks for the next one. Chapter Six will be the most important one so look out for that when it comes out! Maybe those two idiots will finally be less idiotic than they have been, at least in regards to their feelings . . .


	6. Chapter 6

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

Sometimes, somehow, the world doesn’t end when it’s supposed to. Although Aziraphale would have to argue that perhaps it _wasn’t_ supposed to. God’s Ineffable Plan might have been just that. And isn’t that quite a wondrous thing to have faith in?

It’s on the bus ride home that the angel has to dejectedly reach the conclusion that despite all of their best efforts, they really hadn’t done anything to prevent the Apocalypse. (Or the Not-pocalypse? Hm.) The children had really been the ones to save the day, in the end. When he points this out to Crowley, the demon grumbles something about how it wasn’t _his_ fault that they had the wrong child.

“He should have had a name tag is all I’m saying,” is his final protest.

Aziraphale stifles a laugh.

The bus is nearly empty. An old woman knits at her seat in the front and across the aisle from them there’s a man sound asleep. Not a big crowd at such a late hour; no one around to notice an angel and a demon sitting together on a city bus.

Because for the first time, they are sitting _together_. They’d always had to sit behind one another before, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. While it had been fun being secretive, mostly it was just lonely.

So when Aziraphale was given the choice between sitting in front of Crowley or beside him, he chose the latter.

Crowley had stared at him in surprise when he sat down but ultimately said nothing about it. Aziraphale never did either; he just smiled, feeling a bit giddy at finally being able to sit next to Crowley for the first time...ever. Somehow, it’s no longer terrifying.

After all…

Well.

Together. They faced the end together and they’ll go through it all again together.

His mind drifts to his bookshop and he is immediately saddened by the thought. He keeps forgetting that it’s gone. It was more than just a bookshop—it was a home, a safe place, something of his own that no one in Heaven could take from him. If it’s really gone...where will he go?

“Crowley,” he says softly, “could we drop by the bookshop first?”

Crowley turns towards him and makes that face again—gentle and pained. He opens his mouth but Aziraphale rushes to say what’s he’s thinking before Crowley can.

“I-I know that it’s—” he swallows, “—gone, but I’d just like to see it...one last time. Please?” He blinks away the wet gathering in his eyes and tries to look determined.

The bookshop means everything to him. Memories of the place flood through him now and it’s all that he can do not to fall apart remembering them. Part of him hopes that Crowley is somehow wrong about the bookshop. (A foolish hope, but it’s hope nonetheless.)

His friend’s face seems to soften even more. “Whatever you want, angel,” he says quietly and smiles.

It’s a long ride home. When the bus finally stops—and the driver doesn’t really know why he stops it—Aziraphale peers out the window, but it’s too fogged up and dark out to see anything anyway.

The two of them step out. As soon as the bus has driven away, they stare across the street in stunned confusion.

The bookshop is still there. It looks the same as it always has. There’s not a single stone out of place; nothing seems wrong about it.

“I thought you said it burned down,” Aziraphale says.

“Well,” says Crowley, a little stupidly, “it did.”

They walk over to it, their steps both somewhat unsure, but even standing on the steps in front of it, they can’t see anything unusual about it. Cautiously, Aziraphale opens the door and steps inside.

It looks exactly as he left it. He feels warm relief flood through him at the sight. He hurries from shelf to shelf, inspecting each book to check that they are all intact. (And indeed they are.) He turns to face Crowley, who has followed him in and is looking around with mild fascination in his gaze.

“Everything’s here, Crowley!”

“How though?” He comes up next to him, eyes furrowed. “I saw it in flames, angel. It shouldn’t be here.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know and Aziraphale doesn’t _care_. He practically skips through the room, running a hand along the spine of every book, but stops when it touches an unfamiliar one. He pulls it out and eyes it quizzically. “I don’t recall owning a first edition of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_.”

“Don’t think you had any _New Aquarian Digest_ magazines either,” says Crowley as he leafs through a copy from the stack atop one of the tables.

Their gazes meet and they both know.

“Well, I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t turn my _entire_ collection into children’s books,” Aziraphale says and sets it down. He stops, gives himself a moment to become horrified at the thought, and immediately rushes into the next room to check the bookshelves. After another careful inspection, he finds that there doesn’t seem to be anything missing there either, though he does notice an extra book here and there. They’re all first edition children’s books, curiously. He’ll have to figure out what he’s going to do with them later. For now, he flips through the pages of his beloved books, inhaling the familiar scent he’s grown so attached to over the last few hundred years.

His gaze falls on a red book at the end of one of the shelves. For a moment, he just stares, and then he reaches out and takes it into his hand.

(_He’ll remember which one. Just like his heart, it’ll never be opened again_.)

He doesn’t open it. He just holds it, alone among the tall bookshelves, and thinks.

* * *

When he returns to the main room, Crowley’s seated on the couch.

“There you are,” he says and smiles. It’s then that Aziraphale notices that Crowley looks—off. It’s not extremely apparent, which is why it’s taken him a bit to see, but Crowley’s anxious. He’s just a shade paler than usual and from behind the glasses, his eyes never stay still, flicking around the room.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah?” he answers and begins tapping his leg with a hyperactive finger. “Totally fine. Why?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you sure? You’re acting strange.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, dear. Please tell me what’s bothering you, I hate to see you anxious.”

“I’m really fine, I just—” Crowley looks at him, runs a hand through his hair as his smile fades, and sighs. “I...it’s bloody stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Aziraphale says immediately, because even though he’s not sure what has put Crowley on edge, if it’s something that is worrying him, it’s not to be dismissed. He sits down next to him on the couch and tries to find Crowley’s eyes again.

Crowley’s body seems to relax then. (It soothes him to know that Aziraphale is near.) He sighs again and takes off his glasses, studying them. His eyes are sad. “I really thought I lost you,” he says quietly.

“Lost me?” Aziraphale repeats and then says, “Oh. Oh, _Crowley_—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” he interrupts. “_You’re_ fine. I know that. We’re all fine, it’s all gonna be fine with the Apocalypse taken care of and everything, but I...for a moment, I lost _everything_. Right here, in this room. So it’s...it’s a little unsettling because all I can see is everything burning and you _not being there_ and thinking—” He doesn’t finish—looks down at his hands instead.

Aziraphale watches him for a few moments and then says, “I’m sorry. It was my fault that I went off without a word. In fact, I’d like to apologize for everything that I’ve done—and _no_, Crowley, let me say this—for I’ve been in the wrong so many times.”

Crowley leans back, crossing his arms, but his eyes are on Aziraphale. He’s listening.

“For so long, I believed that Heaven was always right,” Aziraphale continues. “No matter what it was, I listened to them, because I thought...well, I thought that’s what a good angel is _supposed_ to do. And I was so, so afraid. I was afraid of Heaven and I was afraid of myself and allowing myself to be myself. It all became quite muddled, really.

“I pushed you away so many times. Sometimes without meaning to, sometimes intentionally. I really hurt you. I _hurt_ you, Crowley, and it’s hard to even try and forgive myself for that. I thought that it would keep us safe if I kept enough distance between us. I thought that it was better for both of us if I didn’t acknowledge our friendship. I thought...oh, I thought so many things and they were all so incredibly wrong.”

He goes quiet for a moment as he reflects, remembering the events of today. “And for what happened at the bandstand—I didn’t mean any of that. I don’t have an excuse. I was just afraid. And that’s not good enough. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every insensitive and hurtful thing I’ve said and done over the last few centuries.”

Crowley is still, now. He watches Aziraphale with searching eyes—serious and patient. “I’ve been a coward too,” he finally says. “I’m always running away from my problems. Like today—I was ready just to leave everything behind me. When I should have stood up against the wrong, I didn’t. And Aziraphale, the moment you called me, I already forgave you. I know you didn’t mean what you said. Even I’ve done things I didn’t mean.”

“But Crowley, that’s the point, I…” Aziraphale tries to find the right words. How does he say it? “I’m _not_ afraid anymore.” He smiles, sort of hopeful, sort of shy, sort of determined.

Crowley looks at him and his gaze seems a little guarded. There’s a kind of warning in them, accompanied by a tired wariness. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—I don’t _care_ what Heaven says,” Aziraphale says and his voice is becoming stronger now. “I don’t want to be a part of that anymore. I won’t be tied down by them. I want to just be me, here on Earth. I want to...be with _you_. I choose to be with you.”

Crowley’s wariness seems to melt from his gaze. He blinks—and then he smiles, real and warm. “Well, took you long enough,” is all he says.

Aziraphale laughs, his cheeks rosy with warmth. He feels light, like all of his burdens have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s _free_. He doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. He can be with Crowley and do whatever he likes.

And what exactly does Aziraphale want to do?

The angel looks at his best friend—his _best friend_—and he’s not even thinking anymore; he just _feels_.

He lifts a hand, reaches out towards Crowley, and tentatively cups his cheek.

And just like that, they’re finally touching.

Crowley’s skin is slightly rough—worn with time. Aziraphale’s fingers tingle slightly. There’s life beneath the skin, a kind of energy he has never been able to sense before.

And Crowley just stares at him. He’s suddenly gone bright red, yellow eyes ripped open in what can only be read as alarm.

For a moment, panic sets into Aziraphale, because although he is no longer afraid, stepping across this line is still absolutely _terrifying_. Crowley’s silence is making him even more anxious.

His hand starts to tremble as his conviction wavers; and it’s then that he notices the glisten in Crowley’s eyes. The demon slowly lifts his hand and places it on top of Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s hand twitches slightly in surprise and then relaxes as the feeling of Crowley’s hand envelops his own. He opens his mouth but finds his throat is dry. He tries and tries and then—

“You’re _warm_,” he chokes out. He can’t believe that he’s touching Crowley, that he can actually feel him. He’s warm, heavens, he’s _warm_ and it’s so, so simple, and yet that small detail means everything to Aziraphale.

Crowley strokes the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb almost tenderly. “I thought I’d never get to…” he says softly and his eyes are now round with amazement.

Aziraphale grabs his other hand and _holds it for real this time_—linking their fingers together and squeezing tightly. (Warm, warm, warm; Aziraphale didn’t know anything could feel so warm.) Crowley makes a funny noise and then squeezes back even harder, like he’ll never let go. They lean their foreheads against each other and now they’re _laughing_ and crying a little too, maybe, because after so much longing and waiting, _this_ moment makes it worth all that.

And Aziraphale is just so caught up in the euphoria and the closeness and his heart pounding wildly in his chest that he says the words.

(_The_ words; the forbidden words; the true words.)

Smiling and breathless, Aziraphale says, “I love you.”

Crowley immediately stills.

Aziraphale stills too, because Crowley does. Then he replays the past couple seconds in his head and thinks, oh, oh _no_.

Then, with a _pop!_ Crowley transforms into a snake.

(To Crowley’s credit, he’s been doing a tremendous job keeping himself together. He has no idea how he’s doing it and he’s honestly surprised he didn’t break down the moment Aziraphale held his hand. However, in his mind, while actually touching each other is a monumental achievement, Aziraphale saying that he loves Crowley is on a whole other scale of impossible. His soul quite literally left his body and now it lies within his true form: the snake from The Garden of Eden.

Crowley...is a small snake. Although he can make himself any size he would like—and often prefers to be enormous—the fact of the matter is that despite whatever he likes to tell himself, Crowley is a small snake. He’s not completely minuscule, but if you were to see him slithering on the streets of London, you would definitely think, “That’s a small snake.” After which, you might remember to scream, but he’d be long gone by then.

On top of being a small snake, Crowley hasn’t been in this form since Eden. Why would he? He likes his human form. But being an immortal being means you sometimes forget things, which is why it’s taking him a bit to remember how to be a snake again.)

He slithers in circles on top of the couch cushion, his long tongue flicking in and out. (And if the words _I love you_ would finally stop echoing in his mind, maybe he could concentrate on the issue at hand.)

Meanwhile, Aziraphale is flushed red and panicking. “Crowley, dear, I’m so sorry,” he says and Crowley stops slithering to stare up at him. He has a very specific look on his face that Aziraphale can’t read. (He doesn’t know snake expressions very well.) The angel picks Crowley up and holds him out in front of him. “You weren’t supposed to know,” he continues on glumly. “I was never going to tell you how I felt since I know you can’t feel the same way. Oh, it was so terribly daft of me to have said that. Please just forget what I said and go back to how we always were, I promise—”

With another _pop!_ Crowley is suddenly back in his man-shaped form. Aziraphale drops him in surprise and the demon falls back on the couch.

“You love me?” he asks and his voice sounds completely bewildered.

Aziraphale looks down at his hands and murmurs, “Yes.”

“Since _when_?”

“Ehm...well, I realized it about eighty years ago but I think it’s been longer than that.”

“And you..._love_ love me?” He still sounds lost. “Actually. Not just as—as a friend or something.”

“Yes, de—Crowley,” he says, feeling more and more disheartened and embarrassed as this goes on. “I really do,” he adds more quietly and hopes that Crowley won’t hate him for it.

Crowley sinks deeper into the couch, searching Aziraphale’s face with his eyes. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “How can you be such an idiot, angel?”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale replies, mildly taken aback and confused by the gentleness the pet name brought to the otherwise harsh sentence.

Crowley stares at him and then seems to deflate. He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, pulling it into his lap and squeezing it. Aziraphale feels a tingle run through him at the still new sensation of their hands touching.

“How can _both_ of us be such idiots?” Crowley says quietly, stroking the back of his hand, and there’s such _sadness_ in his voice and Aziraphale just doesn’t _understand_.

“What—what do you mean, Crowley?” he pleads, almost.

(He wonders when it will finally end—the two of them forever dancing together around the unspoken, never saying what they mean, never doing what they desire.)

Crowley doesn’t love him, he just _doesn’t_.

_I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you wanna go._

No, love is absolutely out of the question.

_Little demonic miracle of my own._

No, _no_, he’s not allowed to hope, why can’t he accept that Crowley doesn’t love him?

_Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together!_

Because—

_Yes, alright, I’ll do that one, my treat._

—if he does—

_We can run away together! Alpha Centauri! Lots of spare planets up there, no one would even notice us._

—then what was the _point_?

Why did Aziraphale wait?

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hand and presses his lips against it.

Aziraphale inhales sharply. He can feel the blush creeping up his neck and tries to calm his racing heart.

Crowley meets his gaze, and the eyes that look up at him and the smile that graces his lips are so gentle and _loving_. “Aziraphale,” he says, “I love you.”

Aziraphale can’t even comprehend what’s happening anymore. He starts to stutter incomprehensibly but manages a, “But...how?” There are tears forming in his eyes. “I thought that you couldn’t.”

At the sight of his tears, Crowley’s eyes widen and he hurriedly cups Aziraphale’s face with both hands. “Oh, angel, angel, angel,” he murmurs, wiping some of the tears away. “Nothin’ to cry about. Please, angel, don’t cry.”

“But why didn’t I know?” he says and sniffs, trying to blink the tears away. “I’ve never been able to feel love from you. That’s why I thought it was impossible.”

Crowley seems to think for a moment and then he suddenly pulls Aziraphale into a hug. “Then listen to me now,” he says into his ear. “Aziraphale, I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you, I _really_ love you. And I won’t ever stop saying it until you understand how much I do.”

Pressed up against Crowley, Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s heart pounding loudly in his chest. He wraps his arms around Crowley’s middle, burying his face in his chest, and breathes in his scent. As the words “I love you” float through his ear again and again, Aziraphale notices something. Now that he’s so close to Crowley and his heart, he can sense something new. Or, rather, not something _new_ but something he’s never been able to sense before in Crowley.

The sensation is an all encompassing warmth, fierce and steady. He can feel that it stems from Crowley’s heart. What’s strange is that he recognizes it. He thought that golden warmth belonged to the Earth.

With a start, he realizes that it’s love. It’s Crowley’s love.

And suddenly the sensation floods through Aziraphale, threatening to overwhelm him with its power. There’s just so _much_ love and it hits him all at once. It makes him a little dizzy. He has to pull himself away from Crowley to clear his head.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asks, immediately concerned.

Aziraphale shakes himself and feels the effects already begin to fade away. Now that he knows where it’s coming from, it’s not nearly as overwhelming. He can still sense it, but it’s calmer now, like a steady pulse softly radiating from Crowley. Aziraphale is grateful that there’s finally an answer to why he was unable to sense that Crowley loved him, but it wouldn’t have mattered at all if there wasn’t. He loves Crowley, and Crowley loves him—he’s always shown it, in fact, but Aziraphale had been blind to that.

The angel smiles and pulls Crowley close again, leaning his forehead against his. “I can feel it now,” he murmurs. “Though it’s absolutely ridiculous that I couldn’t see it earlier.”

“I would have waited another 6000 years for you,” Crowley says.

“That’s a long time to wait.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, angel. It’s always just been you and only you.”

And Aziraphale believes him.

He pulls away just slightly and brushes against Crowley’s lips with his thumb. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

Crowley, whose complexion had returned to normal these past few minutes, suddenly becomes red again. His eyes fixate on Aziraphale’s lips as he tries to stammer out a reply. “I—uh—yeah—mm—yes,” he finally mumbles, shy.

An endeared Aziraphale chuckles as he leans in and finally kisses Crowley.

Slow, soft, and perfect.

Funny, that their first kiss is just like them.

When he finally pulls away, Aziraphale says again, “I love you.”

“I know,” says Crowley, diving in for another kiss.

“I love you.”

“Mhm.”

“I love you.”

He can’t say it enough.

“I love you too.”

He can’t either.

(Hold me in your arms forever, and I’ll never leave them if you do.)

(I will, as long as you hold me in yours.)

All they want is each other—and that’s more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand they've done it, folks! Officially together for all of eternity, as they should be. This is...probably incredibly cheesy, but it makes me happy so write what you want to see! Hopefully it's a satisfactory conclusion for y'all as well. 
> 
> I know that this is Aziraphale-and-Crowley-hold-hands-on-the-bus erasure and while that is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CANON I wanted it to be more dramatic with them touching each other for the first time. This scene is just another example of how Aziraphale is,,, just _terrible_ at reading the situation. 
> 
> Adam turning Aziraphale's entire book collection into first edition children's books is a reference to the book, by the way. I love alluding to it.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone for waiting so long to get here. I've been incredibly slow with updating, and I appreciate the people who have stuck with it. So thank you!


	7. Epilogue

SOUTH DOWNS, WHENEVER AND ALWAYS

It’s barely seven o’clock when Crowley stirs. He blinks, bleary eyed, and reaches for the nearest source of warmth, which happens to be Aziraphale. The angel is still asleep, wrapped up beneath the blanket. In fact, Crowley finds, he’s wrapped up beneath the _entire_ blanket. It’s the third time this week that Crowley has woken up like this, with the blanket completely on Aziraphale’s side of the bed. It’s the one unfortunate aspect of finally convincing Aziraphale to try sleeping again. It took him a few times to really feel comfortable doing it, but since then he’s grown to enjoy it. 

Although, Crowley thinks and sighs, perhaps he’s enjoying it a little _too_ much. He really is feeling very, very cold. That’s not very good for a snake. For a moment, he considers tugging the blanket off of Aziraphale, but he doesn’t have the heart to do it.

So, instead, Crowley wraps himself around Aziraphale from behind. Endeared, he watches as Aziraphale turns over in his sleep so he’s facing Crowley and snuggles in deeper to his chest. Crowley presses a kiss in his angel’s soft, white curls—his angel, _his_—and feels a peace wash over him as he watches him sleep.

Happiness bubbles within him as he does. He doesn’t even know how to contain all of this love, even after all the time that has passed since the-Armageddon-that-wasn’t.

Right away, they had both decided that they wanted to live together. Secondly, they knew that they wanted to be somewhere where no one could bother them. And so, Aziraphale had found a quaint little cottage in the countryside and they had moved in the following day.

Crowley took his Bentley and a few of his best plants with him, and that was all. He didn’t need much.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had quite a lot to bring. There were all of his favorite books, his special mug, and oh Crowley don’t you think we should take the couch? Still, not everything could be brought with them and Aziraphale had to settle with taking only the most important things. The rest was left in the bookshop, which, even without its owner, continues to operate at its normal hours.

The moment they stepped through the door, Crowley knew he was home. He knew it because it was nothing like he’d ever felt before. He took Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him close, and that was the warm beginning to a new life.

He looks outside of their bedroom window now and can see the gardenias blooming. They’re the finest ones in all of England and he’s quite proud of them. He also thinks they’re quite coddled because of how sweetly Aziraphale speaks to them when he waters them each morning. Their petals are the purest of white, shimmering like gentle starlight. They’ve always reminded him of his angel.

When he looks back down at Aziraphale, the angel’s blue eyes are on him, blinking slowly as they adjust to the light.

He smiles, nuzzles his hair, and murmurs, “Sorry. Morning, Aziraphale.”

“Mhm,” says Aziraphale, leaning into him.

“Sleep fine?”

“Yes. Warm.”

“Yeah, of course _you_ were warm; you were hogging the whole blanket!”

Aziraphale yelps a little when Crowley pinches him and then pouts. “Sorry, dear. I don’t mean to do it, you know.” He unravels himself from the blanket and throws it over both of them.

“I was cold,” Crowley huffs and slides down so his head rests against the angel’s chest.

“Oh, poor snake,” Aziraphale says and laughs fondly, carding through Crowley’s long hair with his right hand. It’s grown back out to being shoulder-length again and Aziraphale spends every moment he can running his hands through it. 

Crowley hums. The warm hands of Aziraphale are always comforting. He can never get enough of his touch. He lazily reaches for Aziraphale’s other hand and links his own together with it. He turns it over, letting their gold rings flash in the sunlight streaming through the window. Of all the things he’s free to do now, he likes holding hands with Aziraphale the best. It’s something simple yet so reassuring. Sometimes he’ll just hold out his hand without saying anything, waiting for Aziraphale to take it. And Aziraphale always does.

“You know what, Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

He squeezes his hand. “I’m so happy it almost feels like I don’t deserve it.”

Aziraphale smiles and his eyes soften lovingly as he says, “After all this time, I think we deserve a little happiness.”

They do.

After all, happiness is something that suits them both.

Crowley rolls over onto his stomach and says, “Where do you want to go today? We can go anywhere you want, angel.”

“We could, couldn’t we?” Aziraphale muses and chuckles softly.

“Well, we haven’t been to Paris lately. Pop across the channel, see what they’re up to?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment and then he moves in closer to Crowley, wrapping himself around him. “I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” he says and yawns. He taps Crowley’s chest, where his heart is. “I just want to be in here.”

And Crowley just melts. He doesn’t even care that it’s cheesy. He wraps Aziraphale in his arms and rests his chin on Aziraphale’s head. “You always are,” he mumbles into his hair.

Aziraphale giggles happily. “I know, my dear.”

“We can lie in bed all morning if you want to.”

“That sounds nice. But I might start feeling a bit peckish later.”

“I can make you something if you don’t want to leave.”

“Crowley, dearest, I love you very much, but I must admit that I am rather skeptical that you have any cooking abilities to speak of after your last...attempt.”

“Hang on, it—well—I guess it could have been better,” he admits begrudgingly, because really—it could not have gone worse. He couldn’t make himself eat the food he’d prepared—it was _supposed_ to have been blueberry pancakes—and although Aziraphale had enjoyed an afternoon of incessant teasing over the meal, he had still eaten it.

“That’s an understatement,” Aziraphale replies. “Angels don’t get stomachaches but I somehow had one after eating that.”

“Hush, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smirks up at him and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Well, I’m going back to sleep,” he says and closes his eyes, sighing contentedly. “Wake me up if there’s food.”

Crowley huffs and says, “I don’t know if you deserve any after all that slander.”

He waits for a rebuttal, but there is none. Crowley assumes that he’s already fallen asleep again. He presses a kiss to his forehead and looks down at his angel with pure tenderness. 

After all that they’ve been through, he still can’t believe that Aziraphale is actually here with him. All this time, he’s always been uneasy. Though he was happy, he carried fear and doubt within himself. He felt he could not control his fate, that he was doomed to fall and fall again, that he could never be forgiven. 

But he doesn’t need to be Forgiven. He doesn’t need to be afraid. 

He’s come to see that there’s no point regretting any of the choices that he’s made. After all, they all led him right to where he is now, at his happiest.

He can be at peace. And he can love in peace.

They have forever to look forward to.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tucking a curl behind Aziraphale’s ear, “for giving me my happiness.”

After a moment, a muffled voice replies, “Thank you for giving me my strength.”

Crowley smiles, and still with Aziraphale wrapped in his arms, he closes his eyes and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S COMPLETE.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you everyone who gave kudos, commented, and just checked out my fic. Y'all have no idea how much I appreciate it. This is the first time I've posted any writing publicly in about five years so people showing any interest in what I have to offer has been such a wonderful surprise. It's been quite the journey for me as well. I started this project a little over three months ago and I never thought I'd end up with 20K by the end of it. It's made me so happy to write it and share it with others. So thank you very much.
> 
> This epilogue purely exists to show how disgustingly domestic and in love these two are. I want to make sure that people know that they get the perfect happy ending. By the way, their wedding rings are engraved. They decided not to tell the other what they'd put on the ring (Crowley got Aziraphale's, Aziraphale got Crowley's). These two dorks both chose to engrave their own names onto the other's ring, something they were incredibly amused and endeared by. That way they'll always carry a piece of the other with them at all times. 
> 
> And with that, thank you for reading to the end.


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